PR 

4099 

1852. 



POEMS. 



* , By 

YvwB. R PARKE S. 



LONDON: 
JOHN CHAPMAN, 142, STRAND. 

MDCCCLII. 



1 






LONDON*. PRINTED l!V VV. CLOWES AND SONS, STA.MKOKD STItEET. 



J /U r. /]. 



?? 



IBttftcatetJ 



BARBARA LEIGH SMITH. 




( v ) 



CONTENTS. 





- 


Page 


Warning ...... 


1 


Death the Encircler . 


2 
4 
6 


Mysteries . 
The Moors . 


A Ballad of Smuggling Days 


. 11 


A Carol for Willie . 


. 15 


Christmas comes but once a-year. 


. 18 


New- Year's Eve and New- Year's Day 


. 20 


Summer's Song .... 


. 22 


Hastings in April 


. 


. 24 


Stoneleigh 


. . i 


. 26 


Kenilworth 


. 


. 28 


Marsh Flowers . 


. 


. 30 


Song 


. 


. 31 


Eeminiscences 


. 


. 32 


Song 


. . 


, 34 


With Primroses 


i . 


. 35 


The Old Water-Colour Exhibition . 


. 36 


The Alps. Thusis 


. 37 


Chiavenna on a September Evening 


. 38 


The Plains of Lombardy 


. 40 


Giotto, Da Vinci, Titian 


. 42 


Home to England 


. 43 


The Highlands .... 


. 44 


The Cathedral .... 


. 45 


Two Sketches for Pictl 


RES 


. 48 



CONTENTS. 



The Deserted Village 

To an Author who loved Truth more than 

London from Hampstead Heath 

The Wayfarer . 

The Watch in Heaven . 

The Cloud-Face . 

Best 

Life's Eiver 

The Evidence of Things Unseen 

" Life is our Dictionary." — Emerson 

Music 

The Experience of all Men 

England and Hungary in 1849 

The Last Home . 

Mary 

Two Scenes of Infancy . 

GlORGIONE AND VlOLANTE 



The Meeting of Plato and 
Elysian Fields . 

My Old House 

Earth's Question 

The Keply of the Fairies 

The Teaching of Cornelius 

Little Sarah 

The Old Palace Garden 

To Birmingham 

To * * * * * 

To E. B. . 



Horace in 



Page 

50 
51 
52 
56 
58 
60 
61 
62 
64 
66 
68 
69 
70 
72 
73 
74 
76 

78 
81 
84 
86 
88 
89 
90 
92 
93 
94 






POEMS. 



WARNING. 



Time, rushing past me with the noise of wings, 

Woke up my sleeping spirit, and I wept 

At his receding pinions moving on 

Into eternity whilst I had slept. 

Vainly across the gulf would I have leapt, 

Crying, Oh bear me on thy wings to heaven, 

And place me on my God's right hand forgiven ; 

Or bear at least some Christian deed to lay 

Before the throne — a faint and feeble sign 

Of that which fills my heart. Came answer none 

Across the abysmal darkness. Time was gone. 

'Gainst he returning come, Soul, work and pray, 

That he may take thee unto the Divine. 



( 2 ) 



DEATH THE ENCIRCLER. 



Time rolls, and month by month 

The upwelling blood of Nature fills her veins, 

And the bright wooing sun 

From the dear earth hath won 
A tender blush of flowers that gladden all her plains . 

The waves come leaping in, 

And I lie clasp'd within 
The kind warm arms of Nature. I could die 
In such a mood as this ; my limbs, dissolv'd, 
Should be to some new herb of loveliest shape resolv'd, 

And I would pour my soul, 
A cup of spirit-wine, from out its breathing bowl, 

To help the vital force 
Which wings the stars on their unchanging course, 
Or sprouts among the leaves, and I could be 
So lost in Nature as to compensate for me. 

Thus dreams the poet, thinking, 

Thus dreams the artist, drinking 
Fresh draughts of beauty every fresh created day, 
Till o'er his half-escaped spirit sweep 
Those human memories ever folded deep 
Within his heart : then rather would he say, 

O friends ! dear friends and true ! 

Had I, forgetting you, 
Surrender'd up my spirit before the throne 



DEATH THE EXCIECLER. 3 

Of great Queen Nature, did you but require 
My love, my service, from the quivering fire, 
From rock, and wave, and flower, I know would start 
The outward forms and strengths of myunwavering heart, 
And my life spring obedient when you claim'd your own. 

I fear not life, mine eyes are bold for seeing ; 

I fear not death nor any change of being ; 

Meek for the present, strong for the coming day, 

I tell my soul to be, as be it may ; 

Only I fear that I, who walk along 

In your dear love so happy and so strong, 

Be cut from such communion, and the roll 

Of death's impenetrable waters surge above my soul. 

Oh Grave ! hast thou the victory over Love ? 

Love with the fearless eyes ? I do not think 

That our frail brotherhood, if moving towards that brink 

Beneath whose unseen depths lies black oblivion, 

Could wear the high and beautiful aspect it girdeth on 

When it goes forth to conquer ill, and give 

Each loving heart the assurance — " Thou shalt live." 

Oh Grave ! hast thou the victory over Love ? 
Black shadow, creep not over sunny life, 

Which, striving to put forth 

Some flowers of heavenly worth, 
Shrinks from thine image in unequal strife. 

Oh thou, who gatherest youth, 
Genius, and beauty to thy dark embrace, 
Let one dear smile of pity gleam upon thy face, — 
Seeds which we sow in God expand to flowers above. 
Leave us, who lose so much, eternity and love. 

B 2 



( 4 ) 



MYSTERIES. 



What art thou, and what hidest thou, 

Thou veil of fair material sense, 

So thin, of baffling permanence ? 

What art thou, and what hidest thou, 

Thick curtain, viewless to my sight, 

But shutting me from power and light ? 

Grey clouds of morning barring rosy skies, 

Barring the Hand which made me from mine eyes. 

Sometimes from that most glorious shore 

Where Christ the Lord sits evermore 

Comes a faint wind ; aside one moment rolls 

The awful curtain ; on our trembling souls 

A vision of the Eternity which is, 

Hath been, and ever shall be, very nigh 

To the dear dreaming earth sweeps gloriously. 

A moment hear we symphonies of Heaven, 

A moment see blue depths thro' vapours riven, — 

Then darkness steals upon us, and we seem 

As though our hearts had fir'd at some unstable dream. 

Again the stern and soulless laws of nature drag 

Us unrelenting, crushing those who lag ; 

We hear no spheral hymns ; the subtle soul 

Which works or sobs around us flies our coarse control ; 

The oratorio of the waves is dumb, 

Nor from the sighing groves do any voices come. 

The household angels who walk'd with us melt 

Into thin air, their present love unfelt ; 



MYSTERIES. o 

And while their white wings glimmer far and faint, 
Lo ! where the prophet preach'd, men seek the sculp- 
tur'd saint. 

Ah ! we have glorious days when we seem knit 

To some great Heart, whose loving beat is round, 

Above, below us, and the waves reply, 

And the winds whisper when they catch the sound. 

We walk as gods ; a power is in our eyes, 

Constraining others ; and a finer flow, 

A deeper meaning, in our utterance lies, 

A grander breadth of purpose on our brow. 

Is this the Possible held up before us, 

In the warm summer of our fitful spring, 

When Christ's full bounteous presence shall be o'er us, 

And like a sun shall perfect everything ? 

And thou, and thou, great Nature, soul'd with beauty, 

Which is unto thee as my mind to me, — 

No dead conglomerate of dust and forces, 

But instinct with a vital energy. 

Science, in uttering thy relations, knows not, 

And cannot utter of the soul within ; 

But the dear love we bear thee is a witness 

Thou and humanity are near of kin. 

Oh ! church or chapel preacheth not the fulness 

Wrapt in the life of Nature : she can teach 

To watchful shepherds how great mysteries circle 

Our little life; and ever as we reach 

The heart of some great truth, retreating flieth 

Her all-surrounding essence, and we find, 

Tho' we perchance half fancy that we seize it, 

Impenetrable mystery lie behind. 



( 6 ) 



THE MOORS. 



" Come out," said Leonard, bursting through my door, 

His black curls tangled like a fretting sea, — 

" Come out, nor waste on lazy books this day, 

Fit for the gods, and all too good for men. 

Thou witless student, authors have two eyes, 

As many thou ! with complement of ears, 

(Though rather long ones) ; pray, had Plato more?; 

Bacon could smell and taste, and finger coin 

As saith tradition ; and great Socrates 

Possess'd five senses and his ugliness ; 

An' if thou use thine own great store as well, 

Thou shalt be learn'd and famous ere thou die. 

Thou ever lookest thro' the telescope 

Of great dead minds, seeing the shores remote 

Of past and future time ; thine own poor nose 

Knocking meantime 'gainst every neighbour post. 

Did Beauty die with her Interpreters, 

Dirg'd by the murmur of the Italian sea ? 

Did Science fly with Newton up to Heaven, 

Leaving us here forlorn to read her past ? 

Or do they rather live a fuller life, 

Now dropping blessing down like fruitful rain 

On human hearts and homes ? Who on the past 

Is idly pleas'd to feed his mental frame, 

May be indeed the pupil of great men, 



/t 4^1^ 0l\ c± L J / 



THE MOORS. 

But never their companion. We have priests 
And teachers all about us every hour — 
Matter yet plastic from the hand of God, 
And spirits welling up from founts divine, 
Begging our thoughts. You give no heed to them 
You 're like a child, who throw your lesson by 
To fidget with the key, which in itself 
Is nothing, can be nothing, but a help 
Unto your task's right reading being learnt." 
The sapient Leonard stopp'd. 

So I arose. 
Took my round hat, and put my box of paints 
Into a basket, with some bread and wine 
To sustain the outer husk, and for our souls 
A volume of Carlyle, poet-painter, one 
Wherein he treats of Goethe, and a wee 
Edition of Shakespeare's song's (whose title-page 
Bore the dear name of some old German town, 
Where Leonard bought it, being sworn to Him 
As I to Goethe then) ; and, so equipp'd, 
We sallied forth. 

A slowly winding road 
Led up and up ; upon the boundary wall 
A fringe of ferns cut into delicate shapes 
By Nature's graving tool, and richly dyed 
In every shade of green, grew lavishly, 
Rejoicing, quiet things, to be alive. 
So wound we up, till unawares we gain'd 
The broad high table-land, and to our eyes, 
Our dazzled, utterly astonish'd eyes, 
Broke all that sea of heather, purple ton'd, 



8 THE MOORS. 

A luscious carpet far as eye could see, 
Variously shaded, and the cotton-rush 
Here and there flecking with its snow-white plume 
The great expanse ; and by us brown game-birds 
Went whirring in sharp fear. Ne'er in my life 
Had I seen such a sight, and I stood dumb 
In awful wonder. Leonard said, " God's book 
Lieth before thee." 

In a point of time 
I seem'd to read long chapters, every word 
Cramm'd full with meaning, and the strangest thoughts 
Came over me ; the great indwelling soul 
Of all this beauty spake my heart within, 
While in my veins a richer life-blood ran ; 
The chaos of my fancy open'd out 
Into an order never known before ; 
New thoughts, new paintings, and new poems rose 
Like dreams of a futurity, more bright 
Than ever was my past ; I thought I heard 
The stars all singing, though I saw them not, 
And the earth swell the chorus ; their song said, 
" Glory to God who made the Beautiful !" 
" Glory to God ! " I said, and down my cheeks 
Tears rain'd for gladness, till I could not see 
The heather or the sunshine. Leonard then — 
For he was of a different nature, strong 
And blithe as mountain colt — bid me come on 
And try another page, and while he went 
He sang at topmost voice, " What shall he have 
That kills the deer ? the horn, the horn to wear ; " 
Or else the " Greenwood Tree." 



THE MOORS. 

And so we pass'd 
Over the hills, unto what seem'd a brink 
O'erlooking half a world ; hill after hill 
Around us lay, encircling a great vale 
Of many miles' extent ; and to the right 
An opening stretch'd away : we thither bent 
Our steps, and gain'd a verdant pasture deep 
In shadow of thick trees, beside the Wharf, 
Where comfortable monks had built a church, 
And dwellings for themselves, and pray'd and eat, 
And drank and eat and pray'd and drank again, 
And taught the neighbouring poor some little lore, 
And gave them alms, and gossip'd ; no place this 
For rigid anchorite of dreams divine, 
But rather in these blossoming Bolton woods 
Might all the Greek and Roman poets lie 
Out of the reach of harm on dusty shelves, 
And prophesy — the unrighteous pagans — times 
When Bolton Abbey should lie low, and they 
Should, in quotations, illustrate its fall. 
But we were not to that offence inclin'd ; 
Little of Roman or of Greek thought we, 
But only of sweet England and her bards. 
Down to the river thirstily we went, 
Where yet no deeper than a child's blue eyes 
It sparkled over stones ; the yonder side 
A rocky bank rose steeply, hung with trees. 
There did we lie and dream in the hot noon ; 
Leonard read Shakespeare's songs, as was his wont 
Whenever he was glad. I hid my face 
Far in the thick rich grass, and poems sang, 
Within my spirit, of the olden days, 
And then about the ruins and the trees, 

b3 



!0 THE MOORS. 

And children paddling in the river. I 
Seem'd verily like an iEolian harp that day ; 
I was so mov'd by Nature that I sway'd 
Beneath her like a willow to and fro ; 
And ever as a song came in at one ear, 
I felt constrain'd to sing it, and it went 
Out at the other. So we lay till dusk ; 
Then, when the silver moon in beauty rose 
Into the dark blue sky, and twinkling stars 
Rose over Bolton, shimmering in the Wharf, 
We back return'd. Over the heathery moors, 
Now darkly radiant, silently we went. 



( 11 ) 



A BALLAD OF SMUGGLING DAYS. 



PART I. 

" The night is dark as pitch, Harry, 
But there 's not a drop of rain, 
And when the tide has risen 
They '11 all be there again ; 

" By yonder little eastward bay, 
With the crags on either hand, 
A lonely place, — 'tis there, I think, 
They '11 run the boats to land. 

" Ten of the worst and wildest lads 
Are coming across the sea, 
And the largest boat of the two, Harry, 
Will be laden heavily." 

They walk'd along the shore three miles, 
The strong and fearless men, 
As many as they could muster, — 
But the force was smaller then, — 

Till all within the shadow stood, 
Speaking never a word ; 
Then over the sea the first boat 
Came flying like a bird. 

* * * * 

* * * * 



12 A BALLAD OF SMUGGLING DAYS. 



PART II. 

Bright on the morrow rose the sun 

And glitter'd on the sea, 

The rippled foam of the ebbing tide 

Was as white as it could be ; 

The long brown fields of trackless sand 

Betray'd no mystery. 

" Let us go to the bay, Harry ; 

'Twere well to find some token 

Of who the smugglers were ; 'tis strange 

That not a word was spoken, 

Nor, save by oaths and dying groans, 

That awful silence broken." 



Out to the bay went both the men, 

And, onward as they pass, 

The fishing-boats were doubled in 

A sea as smooth as glass : 

Until one stoop'd, and said, " My God ! 

Here 's blood upon the grass." 

" Here, Harry ! no, it cannot be, 

We came not near this wood." 

Yet both the men paus'd silently, 

And trembled as they stood, 

For the round red drops were plain to see, 

And nothing looks like blood. 



A BALLAD OF SMUGGLING DAYS. 13 

Over the little violet-leaves 
They track'd the life-stains on, 
Over the jagg'd grey shadows 
Of the lichen-crusted stone, 
And midst the shining silver dew, 
That ghastly crimson shone. 



Beside the brook, by swaying reeds, 
Under the shudd'ring trees, 
And where the trailing ivy-sprays 
Were singing to the breeze, 
Sprinkled about the glorious grass 
And white anemones 



They track'd it on ; at last, a roof 
Of sunlit leaves beneath, 
Its white face nestled in the grass, 
Lay the cold Thing of death ; 
The small birds sang in vain to it 
With meek persuasive breath ; 

And all around, the lovely wood 
Was pouring forth a hymn 
At morning dawn : to his dead ear 
All but God's trump were dim, 
The anthem and the loveliness 
Are nothing now to him. 



Quiet he lay, and Harry bent 
And touch'd the curling hair, 



14 A BALLAD OF SMUGGLING DAYS. 

Which lay in tangles, and rais'd up 
The face into the air, 
And a sudden sob broke fearfully, 
Of the strong man's great despair. 

" Thou ! sadly lost, and now found thus, 

Thou darling of my mother ! 

Whose name has been a banish'd word, 

Still dearer than all other." 

Great God ! how long must blood cry out ? 

The smuggler was his brother. 



( 15 ) 



A CAROL FOR WILLIE. 



Christmas comes, Christmas comes, 
Blessing wheresoe'er he roams, 
And he calls the little children 
Cluster'd in a thousand homes. 

Stand you still, my little children, 

For a moment while I sing-, 

Wreath' d together in a ring, 

"With your tiny hands embracing 

In a snowy interlacing, 

And your rich curls dropping down, 

Golden, black, and auburn-brown, 

Over bluest little eyes ; 

Toss them back in sweet surprise 

While my pretty song I sing. 

I have apples, I have cakes, 
Icicles, and snowy flakes, 

Hanging on each naked bough ; 
Sugar strawberries and cherries, 
Misletoe and holly -berries 

Nail'd above the glorious show. 

I have presents rich and rare, 
Beauties which I do not spare, 



16 A CAROL FOR WILLIE. 

For my little children dear ; 
At my steps the casements lighten, 
Sourest human faces brighten, 
And the carols, music strange, 
Float in their melodious change 

On the night wind cold and drear. 

Listen now, my little children, — 

All these things I give to you, 

And you love me, dearly love me 

(Witness'd in your welcome true). 

Why do I thus yearly scatter, 

With retreating of the sun, 

Sweetmeats, holiday, and fun ? 

There must be something much the matter 

Where my wine- streams do not run. 

Once I was no more than might be 

Any season of the year ; 

No kind tapers shone to light me 

On my way advancing here ; 

No small children rush'd to meet me, 

Happy human smiles to greet me ; 

True, it was a while ago, 

But I mind me it was so, 

Then believe me, children dear. 

Till one foggy cold December, 
Eighteen hoary centuries past, 
(Thereabouts as I remember,) 
Came a voice upon the blast, 
And a strange star in the heaven ; 
One said that unto us was given 



A CAROL FOR WILLIE. 17 

A Saviour and a Brother kind ; 
The star upon my head shed down 
Of golden beams this living crown, 
The birthday -gift of Jesus Christ, 
Whereby my glory might be known. 

You all keep your little birthdays ; 
Keep likewise your fathers', mothers', 
Little sisters', little brothers' ; 
To commemorate this birth 
Sings aloud the exulting earth ! 
Every age and all professions, 
In all distance — parted nations, 
Meet together at this time 
In spirit, while the church-bells chime. 
Little children, dance and play, 
We will join ; but likewise pray 
At morning, thinking of the day 
I have told you I remember 
In a bleak and cold December, 
Long ago and far away. 

1848. 



( 18 ) 



CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A-YEAR. 



I said last year, 
Old Christmas cometh with an open hand, 
Bright holly wreath'd about his temples bland, 
Icicles twisted in his curling hair 
And hanging from his breast in crystals rare : 
All men rejoice when Christmas draweth near. 

All men rejoice ! No, no, this royal guest — 

This jolly fellow — hath a double face ; 

Ice-cold and hard as iron is his brow 

When, wrapp'd in pitiless storms and vest of snow, 

He hovers o'er the household of the poor 

And strikes with clenched fist the fragile door. 

When far away the wandering sun hath borne 

His molten beams to drop on Capricorn, 

There is no faggot to supply his place.' 

Low lie the embers in the darkening room, 
The baby's feeble hands are pinch'd with cold, 
The old man, sightless in the gathering gloom, 
Hath sunk into a past of memories old. 
Over their heads the bleak December howls 
And sleety winds about the chimneys beat, 
While miserable rafters scarce prevent 
The oozy drops from pattering to their feet. 



CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A- YEAR. 19 

Wet, cold, and dark. " How long will Christmas last?" 
Say little children who should love it well. 
They cannot sleep at night when that great blast 
Moans in its fury like a funeral bell 
Through such thin walls. Old Christmas passes by, 
His arms fill'd up with a luxurious store ; 
But, ah ! of cake, and toy, and dance, and fire, 
Hath nothing for the children of the poor. 

Poor tiny outcasts of the rich heir's feast, 

They stand with wistful eyes and hear the song 

Of how, when Jesus was a little child, 

His mother tended him the whole night long. 

In the dim street the carol chanteth how 

The three wise kings brought presents rich and rare, 

While giftless they, within their untrimm'd walls, 

Watch the snow falling through the twilight air, 

And count the hours till bed-time— then lie down 

With shivering limbs, in broken sleep, till day ; 

And how shall these believe that in the night 

The kind Child Jesus can have pass'd that way ? 

For shame, old Christmas ! when you visit here 
And bring our little children feast and toy, 
Tell them they shall not have one bit this year 
Till they have fed a child who cannot buy. 
" Good Christians all who in this town reside," 
For whom the season since your birth has smiPd, 
Besides the tracts and blankets, beef and bread, 
Give something to the Christmas of the Child. 

1849. 



( 20 ) 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE AND NEW-YEAR'S DAY. 



Good bye, Old Year ! 
And with thee take 
Thanks for the gifts to every land 
Thou broughtest in thy bounteous hand, 
And all that thou hast taught to hearts thy lingering 
steps forsake. 

Good bye, Old Year ! 

The Past awaiteth thee, 
Who ruleth in her power alone 
The kingdom of Oblivion. 
Silent she sits in ebon chair ; 
Falling mists of dusky hair 
Veil her dark eyes' glorious shine, 
Full of wise help, and truth divine. 
Silent, unless a fitful sound, 
As from some cavern underground, 
Steal from her lips ; the company 
Of ancient Years that round her be, 
Then chanting, one by one, give tongue 
To old experience in their song. 

Good bye, Old Year ! 
Thou goest forth alone, 
As we shall do : thy. pages gay, 
Seasons and months who round thee play, 
Attend thee to Earth's farthest verge, then back ! to 
greet thy son. 



new-year's eve and new-year's day. 21 

Hail, New-born Year ! 

Cradled in morning clouds 
Golden and white. I cannot see 
Thy face — 'tis wrapp'd in mystery ; 
But Spring for thee is painting flowers, 
And Summer decks her woven bowers ; 
Rich Autumn's sheaves will soon be reap'd, 
With store of fruits in sunbeams steep'd, 
And one by one with gentle hand folds back thy sunlit 
shrouds. 

Hail, New-born Year ! 

Shining and beautiful. 
Thou wilt step forth in plenitude 
Of youth and its rejoicing mood. 
Last child of the half-century, 
And time of coming victory 
Over the spirits of night and sin, 
Whose howlings of defeat begin : 
Thou bringest hope, and labour bless'd 
In visions of successful rest, 
Bringest great thoughts, and actions wrought 
In fire upon that forge of thought, 
And with the soul of earnestness I think thy youths are 

full. 

Hail, New-born Year ! 

My utterance is too weak 
To tell of all I think thou bringest, 
To echo back the song thou singest ; 
But the very winds of Heaven, for those who listen to 

them, speak. 



( 22 ) 



SUMMER'S SONG. 



Who calleth? I am coining, I am coming, 

O'er the hills with a swift step, from dawn till gloaming, 

Pouring from my broadlipp'd horn 

Increase over grass and corn. 

As I haste I hear discourses, 

From the murmurous watercourses, 

Of the purple-pinion'd rover, 

While from fragrant fields of clover 

Comes a drowsy dreamy hum ; 

They say, " Doth not Summer come ? " 
Yes, I'm coming, oh ! I'm coming. 

Who calleth ? Bird in greenwood, deer in forest, 
Meadow blossoms, and those small things (much the 
dearest) 
Who blossom in the town, 
And in every alley known 
To venturous explorers among men — 
All say, " Come, sweet Summer, quicken 
Thy slow steps, for, oh ! we sicken 
Of the darkness and the snow ; 
We fain would bud and blow, 
And we fain would build our nest . 
Where the green boughs shelter best, 



SUMMER'S SONG. 23 

And we fain would go and play 

In the meadows yond' all day. 
Oh sweet Summer, sweetest Summer, come again ! " 
Yes, I'm coming, oh ! I'm coming. 

Who calleth ? All the great sea-waves are weary 
Of wrestling with the roaring wind in fury, 

And would like to go to sleep 

On the surface of the deep, 
Dreaming of the mermaids down below. 

All the little streams awake; 

Their silver threads I take, 

With the filmy morning mist 

By early sunbeams kiss'd, 
And wreathe them in a veil about my brow. 

So I walk upon the land, 

Scattering from my hand 

Eichest fruits and flowers, 

While the winged hours 

Paint the sky with gold, 

And loveliness untold 

Of blue and rose and gray, 

Invoking every day , 
Fresh spells of colour and fresh majesty of form. 

Oh ! little child and sire, 

Seated by your waning fire, 
And storm-beat wanderer on the great earth roaming, 
Fold your glad hands in prayer because I'm coming. 



( 24 ) 



HASTINGS IN APRIL. 



In this rejoicing time, when sun and shower 

In shining alternation rule the sky, 

And the brown fields are shadow'd every hour 

By cloudy masses scudding swiftly by ; 

Fields soon to smile in greenness, when the breeze 

Leaves on the placid water tracks of light, 

Or, hurrying, dimples all the crystal seas 

With flecking foam and little wavelets bright, — 

Then every flower sings out its joyous song ; 
The wood-anemones, and violets after, 
Springing in every Sussex hedge and shaw, 
Make all beholders glad with April laughter. 
The primrose opens all her folded buds 
In yellow beauty to the wooing sun ; 
Beneath, thro* banks her lavish bounty studs, 
The fretting streams o'er stones and branches run. 

The celandine, and lilac lady's smock, 
Warning the gatherer of the cuckoo near ; 
The white oxalis, and each old grey rock, 
Whence glossy ferns hang down, to artists dear, 
In every graceful group ; the knotted stumps 
Embroider'd with green ivy, the bare down, 
With windclipp'd oaks securely set in clumps, 
Meet our glad eyes, emerging from the town. 



HASTINGS IN APRIL. 25 

At every step we take the cattle stare 

With great soft eyes, which ask when summer's coming, 

And days of grateful heat and tranquil air, 

Wherein their lazy worships bask till gloaming. 

Fast run the little dogs, and snuff the earth, 

Or chase the flying birds with vain endeavour ; 

The cat considers if to venture forth 

And greet on sunny flags the warmer weather. 

Round go the windmill-sails, and children swarm 

At various games ; the sick come slowly walking, 

Keleas'd by this spring day, and you and I 

Will pace the High Street for an hour's grave talking — 

I mean that rais'd and sunny pavement, high 

Above the road, and bounded by a wall 

Which dear green trees o'erhang, quite undisturb'd, 

Save where our meditative shadows fall, — 

Or out into the country, to that bank 
Of blue-bell and red orchis, you with drawing, 
And I with Tennyson ; no creature near 
But the quiet donkey peacefully hee-hawing 
Over the hedge. So much for Hastings' treasures 
Of sight or sound in April. Every time 
Of the long year hath others, beautiful, 
Gladdening the heart, and meet for duteous rhyme 



( 26 ) 



STONELEIGH. 



Long winding lanes and hedges red with bloom 

Of sweet wild robin, and starr'd with tender white ; 

A sun down dropping gold on summer green 

Of perfum'd woods, whose laced foliage shows, 

In sudden glimpses, depths unfathomable 

Of the far coolness, bower on bower of leaves, 

Various in shade and shape ; which following, 

They 're lost in sudden darkness of thick trees, 

Or branch far up upon the dim blue sky. 

And here are nests of birds, whole colonies 

Of poets singing ever ; nightingales 

As in old Grecian woods ; not mournfully, 

But in glad bursts ana far resounding calls 

Filling the air with music holiest. We 

Stay here awhile and listen : on the faint 

Sweet breath of the wind comes tuneful insect hum, 

Mix'd with a rustle of the swaying leaves, 

Bass to the birds' clear treble — " Beautiful ! " 

Trot on again, dear pony, thro' boss'd stems 

Huge in their venerable age, green slopes 

Of tall June grass, thick set with sorrel, on fire 

With poppies, royally gemm'd with buttercups, 

Ripe to the mower's scythe. The grove-crown'd hills 

Swell up on either side, divinely rais'd, 

Stretching away with distant sunlit copes. 



STONELEIGH. 27 

On — crossing " shallow rivers ; " verily 

They must be those unto whose grassy banks 

The shepherd woo'd his darling ; they flow by 

With such a pleasant rustle over stones, 

'Mid moss and water-lilies, and eddies bright, 

And deeper lucent pools, where silver fish 

Dart ever to and fro. The lazy groups 

Of meek-eyed cattle saunter down to drink, 

And, standing ankle deep, look startled up 

At our unwonted wheels. By Stoneleigh bridge 

Are dotted cottages, with tottering babes, 

And smoke that wreathes against the trees and sky. 

I scarce can think, on this luxurious eve, 
That dismal towns exist, tho' tapering spires 
Rise far away, and warn us such there be ; 
Towns with the thronged street and smoky air, — 
Towns with close alleys breeding fever-plagues, — 
Towns of sad men. Oh blessed summer sun ! 
As thou art to this landscape, which were dull 
And bare indeed without thee, so may we 
Be to the shadowy places round us, full 
Of an interior radiance, shedding forth 
A stedfast light of tenderness and truth. 



c 2 



( 28 ) 



KENILWORTE 



Broad level fields, and hedges thick with trees, 

A calm still evening dropping fitful rain, 

And hawthorns loaded with their perfum'd snow ; 

All Nature langorous, and yet alive 

With humming insects and with bleating sheep ; 

A sky both grey and tender, — misty clouds 

Floating therein, streak'd here and there with gold ; 

And golden flowers topping the tall June grass. 

Ivy clothes all the ruins, sprouting weeds, 

Lichen, and moss for richest tapestry ; 

While for festivity and regal pomp 

Held in the olden time, is nothing now 

But tune of children's voices, and the calm 

Quiet evening, misty on the ruins. Far 

Over the fields are farms and gardens gay ; 

And strong magnificent oaks, beneath whose boughs 

Twilight sits brooding ere she walks abroad. 

A soft moist summer eve, — 'tis Nature grieving 

For the depart of Spring ; not yet the sun 

Hath dried her thoughtful tears ; or else it is 

The death of the Last Fairy, and the flowers 

Hang down their heavy heads in grief for her. 

I on this highest tower look far away 
Over this lovely England ; and I think 
There is a poetry in our northern land 



KENILWORTH. 29 

Peculiar to itself : though it hath not 
The gorgeous colouring of southern shores, 
Peopled with hero shades and temple-crown'd, 
Yet we too have our tale of deeds sublime, 
And spirits haunting our green forest glades, 
And a grave meditation, born from out 
Endeavouring lives and quiet scenery 
And summer evenings so divine as this. 



( 30 ) 



MARSH FLOWERS. 



Spik'd reed and golden Iris bending over 
Low-running streams, and that small pleading flower 
We none of us forget, with foxgloves rang'd 
In rows of crimson bells, and many more 
From hedge and coppice and flat marshes, make 
My glad mind wander forth where they were born, 
When the dim dawn awoke with summer songs, 
And June with glory crown'd proclaim'd the morn. 
With glory crown'd ! oh month of wealth untold ! 
From the high moorland sweeps the scented breeze, 
Gorse spreads a golden pavement under heaven ; 
No stars can pierce the woven forest-trees 
When night again hath lit her silver lamp, — 
Brooding above the homes of sleeping men 
And wide-spread plains of God, who sleepeth not, 
Till all the dykes are lustrous once again. 

Murmur, slow streams, and sway within the wind, 
Spik'd reed and golden Iris, while the day 
Breaks red upon the plain, the moon grows dim, 
And all the piled clouds are roll'd away. 



( 31 ) 



SONG 



I love to lie 
In the dreamy heat of an autumn day, 
Where the painted insects idly play, 
Floating about in the noontide ray ; 

Or at evening hours 
By the gilly-flower on the old grey wall, 
And the scented pea, and the sun-flower tall, 
And the ivy training over them all, 

In the time of flowers. 

By the deep old moat where the duckweed grows. 
And the drowsy streamlet scarcely flows, 
Overhung with garlands of gay wild rose 

And bryony, 
Where mosses carpet each sloping mound, 
And the white convolvulus twineth round 
The cluster'd shrubs and over the ground, 

I love to lie ; 

Where all is still, and warm, and bright, 
Or glowing with a chasten'd light, 
Which fades away in a moonlit night, 

In every time 
Ere the death of the flowers, while the wandering breeze 
Whispers and laughs 'mid the crowned trees, 
To the song of the birds and the hum of the bees 

I would lie and rhyme. 



( 32 ) 



REMINISCENCES. 



I sat once more within a tangl'd wood, 

Beside a quiet river, on whose breast 

A world of trees look'd down admiringly 

At their own beauty ; and the sportive fish 

Leapt up, in their unviolated home 

Fearless of heart ; 'twas on an autumn day, 

And, save the dropping of a waterfall, 

Or the low plashing of a distant mill, 

Sound there was none; the moss grew thick and soft, 

And many a flower o'ertopp'd the heavy grass 

With luscious gifts of colour and perfume. 

And there I used to lose myself amidst 

The tales of old Romance, with beating heart 

Tremble beneath the power of Merlin's spell, 

And follow where Sir Launcelot du Lac 

Brav'd in the Sangreal's quest the powers of hell. 

Nor less my fancy peopl'd that green wood 

With the creations of his magic pen 

Who call'd the centuries from their silent grave, 

And bade each graceful legend charm again ; 

I lov'd right well each high chivalric name 

By him a second time enshrin'd in fame ; 

Dreamt of the Monarch of Linlithgow fair, 

And wept with Constance or rejoic'd with Clare. 

On the still water when the sun went down, 
And the flowers nodded on their slender stems, 



REMINISCENCES. 33 

And earth was hush'd, the angels spoke again, 

And counsell'd, in their low sweet tones, to save 

Adam, of God's deep love the latest born, 

And his fair consort, from the snares of hell : 

Or Shakespeare led me where the summer fays 

Dance thro* the midnight hours beneath the moon. 

Old times, dear times ! no sentimental tears 

Shall mourn your flight : tho' we may never read, 

With youth's peculiar fresh and wond'ring mind, 

Those glorious books again — from hindering thought 

And worldly care and worldly sorrow free — 

Yet ever to our elder years they bring 

A bright remembrance and a fitting charm, 

And what we lose in childish faith we gain 

In fond appreciating reverence ; 

While the young generations round us rise, 

And drink, unslak'd, at our old founts of joy. 



c3 



( 34 ) 



SONG 



Clambering up the rocky bank, 
Briers and honeysuckles fling 
Greenest branches unto air 
Fragrant in the early spring : 
Streams let loose from winter's thrall 
Sparkling thro' the meadows play, 
And with silver voices call : 
Wherefore must I be away ? 
Crocuses by sunbeams lit, 
Hypaticas of many dyes, 
Lose the lover who ador'd them, 
Singing sonnets to their eyes, — 
I, who know each little nook 
Where the early violets grow, 
I, who used to hail the snowdrops 
Softly blooming through the snow. — 
All who used to peep at me 
Now unsought, unsung must be. 
Every voice of Nature calls me, 
Here immur'd must I remain ; 
Ever in my dreams I whisper, 
" When will summer come again ? " 



( 35 ) 



WITH PHIMOSES. 



Within a wood, no farther from the sea 

Than you might hear the waves dash audibly, 

These flowers grew ; the high hills, closing round, 

Made of the little dell a fairy ground 

For warmth and greenness ; never winter dare 

Invade the softness of its tranquil air. 

Adown the wood a lucent stream doth brawl, 

And earliest here the welcome cuckoos call ; 

In the far distance white-sail'd vessels ride, 

Or tiny fleets of fishers deck the tide. 

My picture is too faint, but it may bring 

Some image to you of the scenes I sing. 



( 36 ) 



THE OLD WATER-COLOUR EXHIBITION. 



Oh ! thoughts of Genius, cloth'd in hues divine, 
And sanctifying this time-honour'd spot, — 
Oh ! sacrifices on the holy shrine 
Of Arts to God, by Him rejected not ; 
Most true religious teachers, ye allot 
A portion of Heaven's blessedness to men 
Shut up in dreary town, and noisy den 
Of much unrighteousness, who seldom see 
The gracious form of Nature, save in ye. 
Nature interpreted by Love is Art, 
Which, entering in the inmost spirit, calls 
Tears from the eyes and blessings from the heart, 
And longing lingering reverence to these gloriou? 
walls. 



( 37 ) 



THE ALPS. THUSIS. 



Out from the house I went when early dawn 
As yet had hardly ting'd the peaks with gold, 
And cottage-smoke in faint ascending wreaths 
Stole from the inner depth of valleys old. 
At length upon a sunny hill I sat, 
Looking at meadows cattle-strown below, 
And upwards where into the clear blue sky 
Shot out the tapering peaks of pathless snow : 
And many similes within my brain 
Stirr'd, as if Nature spoke aloud to me, 
And said, " Oh child that watcheth ever, learn 
That which I mean by my solemnity. 
Even as these high peaks above thee rear, 
So stand great souls above the ranks of men ; 
No summer warmth caresses year by year 
Grand heads encircled by a glorious pain. 
But if of verdure bare, thou must not doubt 
Joys of their own to such great souls are given ; 
Lonely they are ; but though forlorn of men, 
They stand in the unchanging light of heaven. 
Oh child ! receive their teaching ; even as here, 
Below them, fir and flower are glistering bright, 
Warmer, more beautiful, the dawn descends, 
Till all the lowest vales are fill'd with light." 

1850. 



( 38 ) 



CHIAVENNA ON A SEPTEMBER EVENING. 



Black eyes, unearthly in their depth and fire, 
Gleam out from under shade of trellis'd vines, 
And faces cut more delicately than 
The forest-flowers by God. Swart brows, and shapes 
Moulded by mountain air, or early ripe 
Amidst the feather'd plains of Indian corn, 
Step (like old pictures out of golden frames) 
From sunlit arches through the glowing streets ; 
And by the shrines the peasants kneel in prayer 
As in the time of Dante. Tall white towers 
Gleam on the steep hill-sides, and such sweet names 
As Giuseppe and Vincenzio, writ 
Above the cottage doors, bring vividly 
Bright fireside memories of our English home, 
And Shakespeare teaching us of what he learnt 
When his great spirit at midnight wandering went 
Far from the moonlit Avon, to discourse 
With the ghost of old Time Past, and to drink in 
The secret spirit of things in stranger lands. 
Here liv'd (more real lives than many a man) 
Those glorious lovers, patriots, soldiers, friends, 
Whose words are ever in our mouths, whose deeds 
Stand out for our example ; this the land 
Where Brutus, standing over Caesar's body, made 



CHIAVENNA. 39 

That great oration which is now more true 

Than ever it was then. Oh land much lov'd 

Of all our northern nations ! age by age 

Thou lift'st among them thy younp^ vigorous head, 

Queen of some new and unexcelled realm. 

Thine was the Empire of the Sword, and thine 

The Royalty of Faith, and thine the Soul 

Of Beauty through external things transfus'd ; 

Now be the great new doctrines of the century thine — 

The People's Progress and their wise self-rule. 

All eyes look on thee, all hearts yearn to thee ; 

For thee are prayers put up, for thee tears shed : 

Give thou thine own best strength, for all men lose 

What thou, so dear, so honour'd, canst not gain. 

1850. 



( 40 ) 



THE PLAINS OF LOMBABDY. 



Heavily hang the purple grapes 
By fair Lake Garda's waveless side ; 
Above, in slow ethereal march, 
Battalion'd clouds in order ride. 
Oh Italy, dear Italy ! 
Did thy sun but light the free, 
What earth, what sky, were so divine, 
So full of majesty as thine ? 

Fading away to formless mist, 

In grand long aisles thy mountains stand ; 

The flame-lit trails of broad-lea v'd vine 

Cling round their poles on either hand ; 

Or over stones of warm grey wall 

Droopingly hang like maids forlorn ; 

A foreground rich with white church-towers, 

And feather'd spires of Indian corn. 

Oh Italy, dear Italy ! 

Often we dreamt of thee unknown, 

A far-off home, a painter's heaven, 

A heritage the poet's own : 

How have thy saints more holy seem'd 

Since we beheld the earth they trod ! 

Where Leonard work'd, and Dante dream'd, 

And Raphael's thoughts were sent of God. 



THE PLACES OF LOMBARDY. 41 

The day is dying, midst the blue 
A molten sun sinks slowly down ; 
The earth is black, the purple hills 
Like heavenly shadows earthward thrown. 
Blind with the glory mute we stand, 
The glorious plains now lost in light ; 
And shortly twilight's tender veil 
Is lifted by the silver night. 

When we afar shall think of this, 
How glorious will the memory be ! 
A golden dream for northern nights, — 
A daily prayer that thou wert free, — 
A vision of beauty cheering us 
Who labour under paler skies. 
May God be with thee in the day 
When thou and all thy sons arise. 

1850. 



( 42 ) 



GIOTTO, DA VINCI, TITIAN. 



Thron'd high above these restless towns are three 

Great elder spirits, calm-brow'd and beautiful, 

As much inhabitants as any be 

Who walk the streets to-day ; their hearts are full 

Of ever-blessing kindness, and I see 

Their pictur'd thoughts and smiles benignant shine 

From all the walls around with love divine, 

And their past words declare a prophecy. 

Time was when these great spirits walk'd the earth, 

And time shall be when such again be born ; 

The shining constellation of their birth 

Shall open to a wider glow of morn ; 

And all the pious thoughts these ancient works declare 

Be by our children sung and painted everywhere. 



( 43 ) 



HOME TO ENGLAND. 



We stand together on the deck. 
Around us twilight falleth fast, 
And the soft rain of autumn bears 
Its welcome on the fitful blast. 
That tender greyness of the north, 
The late October day hath donn'd ; 
Save, over England, one pale streak 
Of amber tells of skies beyond. 

Glorious lands we leave behind us ! 
(Bleeding life from every pore), 
Those great native hopes which bind us 
Shall but make us love you more ; 
But we feel your noble memories, 
All whose teachings we revere, 
Your grand skies and grander artists, 
Pale to life which waits us here. 

Ev'n as that faint streak of amber 
Speaks of a clear heavenly air, 
England, prophesying nobly, 
Bids the nations not despair ; 
The great thoughts she rears within her 
AVaft a message o'er the sea, 
And we say, in swift approaching, 
" All our heart is wrapt in thee." 



( a ) 



THE HIGHLANDS. 



Hills that were born of ages, 
Heaving slowly from the deep, 
Are shaking down their tresses, 
Silver-threaded from the steep ; 
Curling shining tresses 
Streaming ever down the steep. 

Hills ! prophets of the future, 
Hills ! teachers of the past, 
Like monuments to mighty gods 
Upon the broad earth cast. 
Rob'd in the purple heather, 
Crown' d with the snow-white mist, 
Kings sit they all together, 
Vouchsafing to be kiss'd 
By the tender sunlight 
Only when they list. 

The unfathom'd lakes lie meekly 
Looking upwards to the sky, 
And image forth the monarchs 
As a dream or fantasy ; 
And the hill-wind runneth o'er them, 
Singing in JEolisui strains, 
Singing of the earth's divineness 
To the dwellers in the plains. 



( 45 ) 



THE CATHEDRAL 



Fine and strong 
'T has stood for long 1 , 
Jetting up its slender lances 
Far athwart the arched sky, 
On whose tops the sunshine glances, 
While the birds wing brightly by. 
Fine and strong, 
A sculptur'd song 

Of forest hours, 

Boughs, fruit and flowers. 
The oak, the vine, the summer rose, 
With buds and bells no herbist knows, 
Twisting round each great stone column, 
With its aspect high and solemn. 

Fine and strong, 

Thick trees among. 
Statue fretted, each stern King 
Girt about with royal ring 
On his brow, and sceptre laden 
With his royal arms engraven ; 

For all time, 

A form sublime ; 

Never moving, 

Grieving, loving, 



46 THE CATHEDRAL. 

Ever looking calmly down 
From his niche as from a throne, 
But one calmer than his own. 
Carven niche, 
Wrought in rich 
Knotted angles interlacing, 
Holds each fast in its enchasing, 
Divided by a slender shaft. 
Many a face grotesque has laugh'd 
Ages from the pipes. A Virgin 
Stands upon the porch's margin, 
And the Child 
Thus long has smil'd, 
Praying the weary and the poor 
To come unto his Father's door. 
Many warriors hereabout 
Lie, some with cross'd hands devout, 
Under the blue sky, but others 
The great inner aisle-roof covers. 
Ah ! within 'tis all divine, 

With soften'd shine 
From every pane 
Whose gorgeous stain 
Lies upon 

The pavement stone, 
Telling many an awful story 
Of the martyr days divine ; 
While a dim torch -lighted glory 
Streams from every pictur'd shrine ; 
And the anthem slowly rolls 
Over the assembled souls, 
With a free 
Full melody. 



THE CATHEDRAL. 47 

God Almighty fram'd this church 
In the artist's mind I think ; 
Beauty's fountains none may search, 
Save who religiously will drink. 

This for the Spirit 

To inherit 

Built he humbly, 

Ay, and dumbly. 
We can but say some man once thought 
In this wise, nought else is known, 
And with long endeavour wrought 
His thoughts divinely into stone. 



( 48 ) 



TWO SKETCHES FOR PICTURES. 



The sultry sun 
Burn'd hotter in December than the skies 
Of our far land in June ; within a bower, 
Where all the lucent leaves were fill'd with light, 
And shed it greenly round, a lady mus'd, 
While the lac'd shadows quiver'd on her face, 
As skimming clouds on earth, or thoughts in hearts 
Which drink their influence in. Down to the ground 
Swept her long hair, stiller than scrolls of stone. 
So broadly curv'd her thoughtful brow, I said, 
" This is the model we have waited for, 
By poets sought unseen ; still slow to take 
Her sceptre in her hand ; Fate's prisoner. 
This is the Spirit of Freedom, calm and fair, 
Which many lands desire. She bides her time. 
Within her awful eyes such sorrow dwells 
As shakes my heart with fear ; and yet I know 
When she arises not a throb or pang 
Will usher in her steps. She bides her time. 
When the far thunder sinks below the sea 
She will walk forth to govern ; noiseless flowers 
Will spring around her feet. Till then she hears, 
With the stern patience only gods can feel, 
The groans which minute Time, — i Eternity,' 
(I read her thoughts,) ' Eternity is mine.'' " 



TWO SKETCHES FOR PICTURES. 49 

Night loosen'd all the blackness of her hair, 

Which fell about her in an ample cloud 

Dropp'd with no jewels, veiling her blue eyes 

In ebon fringes, and a sighing sound 

Stole from her closed lips, as in unrest 

She sway'd with slowest motion to and fro ; 

Then sat serene, and seem'd to search within 

The abysses of her soul and memory vast, 

And thoughts unknown to men ; and wept her hours 

(Her lovely starlit hours, choice gifts) defil'd 

By evil, cruel thoughts, and bloodier deeds. 

" Time was, when from my cooling urn 

I scatter'd dews, and with my delicate hands 

Clos'd up the flowers, that sages lit their lamps, 

And ponder'd heavenly secrets, keeping fast. 

Dark vapours hover now about my brow, 

And bad things seek their shelter. I am weak, 

And tremble, powerless to inspire a prayer. 

Where art thou gone, my brother ? " Thro' the dim 

earth 
Sounded the cry of Night, and heavily 
Fell the large tears from her mist-blinded eyes. 
Now rang the silver bells of Dawn ; sweet smells 
Breath'd from the wakening flowers ; a streak of light 
Was mirror'd in the sea ; and Night arose, 
Gathering her robe, retreating towards the west, 
Till in its farthest depths her lofty form 
Was lost, and all her path refulgent shone 
With jewels, and the Day, advancing, shook 
Perfume and music from his golden curls. 



( 50 ) 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



Birds will pipe another spring 
Songs we shall not hear, 
Ancient Sabbath-bell will ring 
Vainly for our ear. 

Never more with willing feet 
To its calling shall we meet, 
Never more on summer's day 
All together sing and pray. 

On our hearths will fires burn 
To which we shall not return 
Homeward when the nights grow cold, 
As we did in days of old. 

Here we leave our cradle's corner, 
Here likewise we leave a grave, 
Within which, a tir'd sojourner, 
One of us a rest will crave. 

Unforgotten, unforgetting, 
Footsteps faltering and slow, 
Uncheck'd tears our eyelids wetting, 
To another home we go. 

Hoping on, and ever hoping, 
Fill'd with solemn trust alway ; 
With all evil bravely coping, 
Move we forward — God our stay. 



( 51 . 



TO AH AUTHOR WHO LOVED TRUTH MORE 
THA2T FAME. *■ 



Xo word of pity, if the storm should beat, 
Need any voice bestow which calls you dear ; 
You will uot quail beneath the foolish heat, 
Nor mourn anathemas you do not fear. 
Truth is. your strong and loyal heart will say, 
Of all her rnartyTs the sufficing friend. 
And. when the lamp of love has pal'd away, 
"Will without fail her own great glory lend. 
Oh voices rais'd in passionate protest once, 
Brave spirits from whose pains our freedoms spring, 
Who dar'd your birthright of delights renounce, 
And, finding G-od, feel rich in everything, — 
How long shall we your noble names revere^ 
And write your actions where our sons may see, 
Your ancient utterance in our hearts ensphere, 
And, when your steps are follow'd, turn and flee ? 



ZCu^t./ Ky tut*- • D 2 



( 52 ) 



LONDON FROM HAMPSTEAD HEATH. 



Peace on the hush'd earth fell at eventide, 
As dew from heaven upon the thirsty grass ; 
No sound unmusical broke on the ear, 
The fields all tranquil, and the waters calm. 
Each drowsy flower hung down its gentle head, 
The murmur of each insect died away, 
As, floating down, it sank with folded wing, 
Weary with play and happiness, to sleep. 
No vapour o'er the populous city hung, 
Spread out in grandeur on the horizon's verge ; 
But dome and pinnacle and pillar tall, 
And all the royal works of royal men, 
Lay carv'd in .miniature before my eyes ; 
And graceful gardens rearing amidst spires 
Rich burnish'd hues of autumn, and proud piles 
Of charity (the gift of timorous death, 
Hoping perchance to cancel evil deeds), 
And halls of learning consecrate for long, 
And giant fabrics for each social craft, 
The so-call'd crown of these luxurious times : 
And there were mighty sepulchres to men 
Unhonour'd in their lives; and tombs of kings, 
And ancient gateways into busy haunts, 
Full of the modern spirit of loss and gain, 
All in one vast confusion intermix'd. 



LONDON FROM HAMPSTEAD HEATH. 

A noble city and a nation's pride, 
Set in a lovely frame of sloping hills, 
And girdled by a river, where the sun 
Quiver'd and danc'd, as glows a ring of fire. 
The radiance died away, and Night walk'd forth, 
Darkness and Sleep with her, her children twain, 
And brooded o'er the town ; yet many eyes 
Watch'd weary doubtless, and slept not till dawn. 
Then to the distant height whereon I stood 
Rose a sad sound, which, filling all the air 
(This to my fancy, not my waking sense), 
Struck fear into my heart, as of one who sees 
Dimly the black edge of an awful gulf, 
And guesses at the unknown depth below. 
Musing, I clos'd my eyes, and visions rose 
In long array before them — of times past, 
And times to come ; and pictures of true life 
Even at the moment painting stirr'd my tears. 
Oh God ! this hour, thy gift, how rich it is 
In all we love of heroism, how black 
In all we hate of sin ! 

In one abode, 
Dark from the clouded air, remote from heaven, 
Or aught that nature made, were two that spake 
In whisper mournful, and with clasping hands. 
They were not lovely nor of high repute, 
Gifted in intellect, nor mild of mood ; 
Two rougher spirits scarcely might be found 
In all the city, but a spell w r as on 
Their darken'd natures, and work'd strong within, 
And brought from out the abyss of evil days 
A touch of holier feeling undecay'd. 



54 LONDON FROM HAMPSTEAD HEATH. 

It was night ; 
Small sign of beauty or of wealth was there, 
Save one poor primrose dull'd and dried with smoke. 
And one poor human bud, than all more sweet, 
Which lay on a little couch ; its eyes were clos'cl, 
But the long lashes quiver'd restlessly, 
And from the small pale lips a moaning cry 
Broke, as of pain. Father and mother there 
Sat in their desolation all alone. 
This was the first born and the only one, 
For whom they often hush'd their wicked words, 
That he might learn no ill ; they pray'd for him 
When reckless of themselves, and hop'd the lad 
Might find some better teaching in a school 
Than they had found in gaols ; but now, no hope, — 
The fiat had gone forth, " The child must die ; " 
And wherefore ? kill'd by very want and care. 
It never play'd by marge of river clear, 
It nothing knew of natural sounds or scents, 
Nor thought of things divine ; it only knew 
A coarse humanity, a Godless world 
Of streets and alleys, an avenging law : 
So, one of many children, thus it died. 
Father and mother mourn'd it all alone, 
And weeping stood beside the little grave, 
While cold eyes look'd on them with curious stare, 
And then pass'd on ; for not in churchyard green, 
Quiet and holy, in some nest alone, 
Was this grave made ; no sound of village bells 
Lull'd him to sleep ; but where the rattling wheels 
And loud shrill voices broke their darling's rest 
Throughout the day, and all the dismal night, 
While yet he linger'd on the dreary earth, 



LONDON FROM HAMPSTEAD HEATH. 55 

There, in a corner, with no stone to mark, 
Rail'd from the common street with open bars, 
They laid their boy, and back return'd alone. 

Oh London ! great among the nations, great 

In thought, in wealth, and greater being free ; 

Who dwellest under thine own magistrates, 

And say'st " My express'd opinion awes the world," — 

Oh mother city ! oft thy freedom seems 

One vast corruption of the eternal ties 

Which bind men to each other. 



( 56 ) 



THE WAYFARER. 



With a sweet murmur dropping waters play, 

Breaking the stillness of this summer's day, 

And all things beautiful and light and fair 

Rejoice, half sleeping, in the noontide air, 

Or lie, dream-revelling, through luxurious hours, 

Children and insects, cattle, birds, and flowers. 

Oft in my childhood did I lie and think, 

As these do now, upon this river brink ; 

And watch'd the oziers swaying to and fro, 

Or oak-trees mirror'd in the stream below ; 

And many a nook, branch-bower'd, here I knew, 

Whose unsunn'd water never caught the blue 

Of distant heaven in summer ; only green 

Of million lucent leaves and boughs between. 

Thence gazing out with happy dazzled eyes 

Over that bounteous land where ever lies 

A future beautiful to striving men, 

The Land of Hope yclept, I deem'd it then 

Begemm'd with flowers, and rich in mossy dales 

Soft unto waysore feet, with open vales 

Of greenest pasture sloping to the sun, 

Where sparkling streams and placid rivers run. 

O'er the blue hills the rolling white-ridg'd clouds 

Wrapp'd peaks and fir-woods in their fleecy shrouds ; 

And mountains rose in far recession, far, 

Where dwellings fit for kings and prophets are. 



THE WAYFARER. 57 

Yet in those mountains many a deep abyss 
Yawns to engulf the traveller, serpents hiss, 
And in the twilight thickets many a danger 
Of man and nature lurks to greet the stranger. 
When all these terrors strike his trembling heart, 
Alone who enter'd, to alone depart, 
Shall he walk feebly in the appointed track, 
Falter, or, worse, with timid steps turn back ? 
There many a dark valley must he pass, 
Eying with strained sight the tangled grass ; 
And oftentimes the dreary clouds will pour 
Unceasingly, and heavy thunder roar. 
No succour lies in love or kindred blood, — 
They cannot save him, even if they would. 

Oh ! yet above him is a glorious sky ; 
Around the joyful helps of nature lie ; 
Beside him ever Faith and Hope and Love ; 
Within, his thousand vigorous pulses move ; 
Beyond him, farther than his eyes discern, 
Much to be conquer'd, everything to learn. 

Oh heart, be brave and tender ; eye, be true, 
Of vision keen to pierce all danger through ; 
Feet, bear your master manfully along ; 
Be his whole spirit teachable and strong, 
And joyful too, as standing in the light 
Of heav'nly hope ; for God's sun shineth bright, 
To show all good men their right road, their prayer 
Gives light in darkness when the days are drear. 
Earth ! grant some cheering love, such love is due 
God help the helpful, and uphold the true. 



P3 



( 58 ) 



THE WATCH IN HEAVEN. 



When trembling angels stand aloof, 
Watching the fight with folded wings, 
Forbid or succour or reproof, 
And every hasting second brings 
News of the battle fought below, 
Where Satan dares his human foe, 

God ! leave us not alone. 

When morning dawns and daylight breaks, 

Mournfully, into golden flakes ; 

When aching hearts and heavy eyes 

To meet the coming day arise, 

And wondering grope, as in a dream, 

Midst things that are and things that seem ; 

Finding that in our bitterest needs 

Our usual Faiths were broken reeds, 

God ! hear us from thy throne. 

That grief there is when every light 
Seems deep engulf'd in blackest night ; 
No hope, no peace, no comfort left, 
And Faith of its own cross bereft, 
Some know, all may : what rescue then ? 
How shall the weary rise again ? 
A power descends on striving men, 
Helping us that we live. 



THE WATCH IN HEAVEN. 59 

More strong belief, a deeper hope, 
More noble aims, a wider scope 
Of love and thoughtfulness, to heal 
All nearer hurts our spirits feel, 
We, Father, ask, who grieve and sigh 
As if no Christ were ever nigh, 
Who compass'd every grief that we 
Have known, though sharp our agony. 
And so, by wrestling, may at length 
Our very weakness teach us strength. 

All-Mighty ! hear and give. 



( 60 ) 



THE CLOUD-FACE. 



Painted on a little cloud, 
Opposite the sunset sky, 
Far above the high-pil'd crowd 
Sailing slowly softly by, 
I saw a face, its tender rose 
Fram'd in braids of golden hair ; 
A beauty underiv'd of earth 
Was pictur'd and suggested there. 

Oh beautiful beyond my thought ! 
Oh beautiful beyond my dream ! 
Half fading in the tremulous nought, 
Half merging in the golden gleam ; 
Spiritual as the blue, blue sky, 
And rich as any western ray, 
Most like some woman of the past, 
Whose memory knoweth no decay, — 

Yet humanly expression'd, full 
Of all that Nature teacheth, power, 
And grace, and love, and tender joy, 
Unconscious as of any flower. 
Was it some heavenly minister ? 
Or memory of mine own, more fair ? 
The golden braids were lost in stars, 
The cloud-face melted into air. 



( 61 ) 



REST. 



Deep heart and earnest eyes 
Seeking for rest, 
Finding a weight that lies 
Cold on thy breast, 
Musing on nearest ties 
Mournfully riven, 
In thy despair arise, 
Turn thou to Heaven. 

Humanity, gifted 
With patience and love, 
Thereby should be lifted 
Earth's sorrow above ; 
Should read with believing 
The words of the bond ; 
While dull hearts are grieving, 
Shouldst thou see beyond. 

Strong will and eager mind 
Striving to mould 
Deeds to remain behind 
When thou art cold ; 
Choose thou the better part 
Written in story, 
Live in man's grateful heart, 
And for God's glory. 



( 62 ) 



LIFE'S RIVER. 



On the still water of our childish days 

The noonday blue and midnight heaven look down, 

Painting themselves, while every drooping flower 

Or lovely human thing which haunts its bank 

Lives in the mirror with a fairer life. 

Perchance some holy and love-gleaming eyes 

Gaze in our stream, or music- voiced prayer 

Ripples the water and floats up to God ; 

But comes a blustering wind, do earthquakes split 

The trembling globe, does winter's thralling ice 

Hem in our little path, — and all the peace 

Of this our life is gone, and we go forth 

With troublous murmur to encounter man. 

Nay, less than this, the petty trivial cares, 

The pebbles flung by hand of idle boys, 

The fall of leaves upon our waters, and 

The noiseless drop of an unceasing rain, 

Such little worthless trifles have the power 

To mar our glorious mirror ; no more stars 

Lose themselves, gliding thro' the dark twin depths ; 

And he who seeks to find within our breast 

Aught of tranquillity or loveliness. 

Finds fragments of a thousand jumbled things, 

Circle on circle, and the roll confus'd 

Of unreflective wave succeeding wave, 



LIFE S RIVER. 63 

Grief restless and complaining, and past joy, 
Sadder than sorrow, and a broken tale 
Of our life's picture ; m#iny days must pass 
Ere the chaf'd waters gain their wonted calm, 
And then — the leaves have fallen, and the wind 
Has kill'd the flowers ; another time of year 
Has laid our love in the grave, and gather'd fogs 
Obscure the glory of the midnight stars. 

What then, sad spirit ? leaving field and glade, 
And thy sweet progress between blossoming banks, 
There is no less a glorious destiny 
For thy vex'd waters ; stately ships shall ride 
In triumph on thy bosom, populous towns 
Murmur beside thee, noble work be thine, 
Till thou at last shalt lose thyself within 
The infinite ocean, and find infinite peace. 



( 64 ) 



THE EVIDENCE OF THINGS UNSEEN. 



We walk in mysteries howsoe'er we tread, 

And none less awful that we see them not, 

Or that our solemn musings o'er our dead 

In life's tumultuous whirl are soon forgot. 

All common things we take as if our due, 

We see no riddle in the earth or sky, 

We watch all beauty year by year renew, 

And then with casual speech walk coldly by. 

The miracle of never-dying force, 

That revelation of a present God, 

The torrent rushing down its Alpine course, 

The tiny grass-blade piercing thro' the sod, 

We talk about, but do not feel ; the sun 

Rains gold on all the hills, and starry flowers 

Look up in gladness ; the young birds are flown, 

And soft sweet evenings mark the length'ning hours. 

And then, perhaps, a child is born, weak thing 

Created for eternity, a soul 

At whose advent the heavenly angels sing, 

Whom Faith and Hope and Love would fain control ; 

But we, — upon its face we do not see 

The spirit-traces, nor within its cry 

Hear marvellous whispers of much misery, 

Or peace, as may be, it shall labour by. 



THE EVIDENCE OF THINGS UNSEEN. 65 

Men die, we bury them ; 'tis so much dust, 

Muscular, nervous tissue, Heavens ! what not ? 

<; He was a moral man^nd God is just." 

And so we leave the corpse alone — to rot. 

Moral ? Perhaps ; yet he in former years, 

While yet a man, did sin, or leave undone 

That which he should have done, and then the tears 

Down his pale cheeks repentantly would run. 

And he had inward struggles, and he still, 

Tho' rising bravely after every fall, 

Fought hardest battles with an evil will ; 

And by the midnight stars for help would call, 

Importuning his God. The poor soul lov'd, 

And left what he did love, and question'd sore 

The mysteries of the world, and ever prov'd 

The truth in those wise words of one of yore, 

Who knew that he did nothing know. This man 

In truth was something more than flesh and blood ; 

Not to be lightly spoken of; a plan 

Among the many of eternal good ; 

Cunningly wrought, and in him was the breath 

Of life ; but what is that ? It came at birth : 

From whence ? and how ? Was exorcis'd by Death ; 

Departing where? We know not. Pray, thou earth, 

And think on all these things, and dwell in awe 

Of holiness upon thee ; neither walk 

Regardless of divinity and law 

Writ in thy conscience. In thy daily talk 

Mingle sometimes these themes — all is not plain, 

And amidst holy oracles we live ; 

Shall their dim messages be all in vain, 

Or wilt thou into thought and action them receive ? 



( 66 ) 



"LIFE IS OUR DICTIOMRY."-EMERSON. 



Deem not thy labours or thy sufferings hard ; 
The weary traveller makes a tuneless bard. 
Wouldst thou to raise and comfort earth aspire, 
Learn thou her language first ^ and tune thy lyre 
To such sweet music of familiar chords 
As may give life and clearness to thy words. 
How shalt thou breathe a charm o'er weeping eyes, 
Who never desolately groan 'd and wept ? 
How shalt thou tell of that deep peace which lies 
In faith, whose restless spirit never slept ? 
How shalt thou dry those tears forlornly shed, 
Whose eyes, unlesson'd, never watch'd their dead ? 
How speak of meeting to the lonely-hearted, 
Who never from thine own belov'd hast parted ? 
How sing sweet ditties to enchant the child, 
When fair young eyes have never on thee smil'd ? 
Or teach Christ Jesus' loving doctrines, when 
Thou art thyself unlov'd, unsought, by men ? 
How that dispense which thou hast not receiv'd ? 
How give to others life, who hast not liv'd I 
Think not an empty form of words to borrow, — 
All know by instinct who has felt their sorrow ; 
In vain thine art,— the mourner's cry would be, 
" Thou 'rt ignorant, poet, of what aileth me." 



" LIFE IS OUR DICTIONARY. 67 

We counsel seek from judgment taught by years, 
But trust our heart-griefs to the wise by tears. 
He tortur'd most will most search out the pain, 
A tyrant's victim breaks the nation's chain. 
View then thy grieving as a thing of worth, 
If thou thereby canst meet a grieving earth ; 
Ponder on tombs till thou hast learnt how much 
Of life's best treasure is encas'd in such ; 
Hold up to men the form of the Divine, 
And bid its radiance on their tear-drops shine ; 
Singing, O Poet, " Once I wept with ye ; 
That hour is past ; now, overcome with me." 



( 68 ) 



MUSIC. 



Sweet melody amidst the moving spheres 
Breaks forth, a solemn and entrancing sound, 
A harmony whereof the earth's green hills 
Give but the faintest echo ; yet is there 
A music everywhere, and concert sweet ! 
All birds which sing amidst the forest deep 
Till the flowers listen with unfolded bells ; 
All winds that murmur over summer grass, 
Or curl the waves upon the pebbly shore ; 
Chiefly all earnest human voices rais'd 
In charity and for the cause of truth, 
Mingle together in one sacred chord, 
And float, a grateful incense, up to God. 



( 69 ) 



THE EXPERIENCE OF ALL MEN. 



Mine eyes are grown too dim with tears to gaze 
Into the future with that eager eye 
Which, in the fulness of my young amaze 
At this fair earth and various harmony, 
I bent on all things, hoping to descry 
A parallel in spirit ; but I found 
Such grief and desolation all around, 
And the air fill'd with such a mournful cry 
Of human tones, that I shook off my dream, 
And comfortless arose. And then God spake — 
Have I not given thee work wherein shall be 
A life's joy and abiding-place for thee ? 
Time to thine eyes a fairy vision brake, 
Time does but perfect every noble aim. 



( 70 ) 



ENGLAND AND HUNGARY IN 1849. 



Oh cruel England ! standing coldly by, 
While groans of human creatures rend the sky. 
The mother's darling and the sister's pride, 
And many a maid's betroth'd one, side by side, 
Send up the stifled sob and heartsick moan 
Which break the peace of God's eternal throne. 

Low-thoughted England ! since you could not feel 

How dear to noble souls their country's weal, 

Consider'd only in the fair aspect 

Of rights which ask and which command respect ; 

How the soul needs her own peculiar bread, 

And stricken honour bows the sturdiest head. 

Were all material good to Hungary left, 

And only this of her desires bereft, 

Were only honour lost and mourn'd in vain, 

Oh Hampden's England ! you might feel that stain. 

But not alone her patriot or sage 
Weeps as he pores upon the sullied page 
Which tells how Hungary to the heart was riven, 
And the lost Pleiad shone no more in heaven. 
O cursed prisons ! festering where you stand 
With that black misery which defiles a land ! 



ENGLAND AXD' HUNGARY. 71 

Lo, far and wide, paternal homes deplore 

The gay young feet which now return no more. 

When households gather round at break of day, 

And lips too sad to talk are fain to pray, 

The mother, gazing in a mute despair, 

Turns, sick and shuddering, from each empty chair. 

Oh England ! slow to speak the indignant word ; 

Oh England ! sheathing an ungenerous sword ; 

Deaf to the voices you have call'd divine, 

From each grey tomb you consecrate a shrine, 

Which say, " Before you dare your homage pay, 

Do as we had done, had we liv'd to-day, 

Nor make us mourn who bend on earth our pitying 

eyes, 
Death binds our hands whose love for freedom never 

dies." 



( 72 ) 



THE LAST HOME. 



Where shall ye lay me ? not in foreign climes, 
Where stranger winds would sadly waft the unaccustom'd 

chimes ; 
Where my weary spirit would in pain a lonely vigil 

keep, — 
Oh ! in that distant land, I pray, lay me not to sleep. 

Where shall ye lay me ? not where mermaids sigh, 

'Mid the roughly chafing billows, so dolefully ; 

And, longing for the summer days, o'er shipwreck'd 

sailors weep, — 
Within the waves of the deep dark sea lay me not to sleep. 

Where shall ye lay me ? not on mountain brow, 
Where the white snow lies, and the dark firs grow ; 
I do not love the precipice and chasm's yawning deep, — 
Upon the frowning mountain, then, lay me not to sleep. 

Where shall ye lay me ? not 'mid haunts of men, 
Where crime and poverty peep out from every crowded 

den, 
Where loud the ceaseless bells would clang, Death's 

harvest-ears to reap, — 
Oh ! in the city's busy range lay me not to sleep. 

Where shall ye lay me ? far far away, 

Where freshly in the early spring the dancing leaflets 

play. 
Tall poplars by my grave long watch shall keep ; 
There, by those I lov'd in life, lay me to sleep. 



( 73 ) 



MARY. 



Waves which discourse, in a melodious whisper, 
Mutual knowledge with the marshall'd clouds, — 
Murmur of June, which riseth up with Hesper, 
When the wing'd squadrons hover round in crowds, — 

Colours which change and melt at every station 
Won by the sun within a glowing sky, 
Whose lawful order points a fine relation 
Linking the spheres of light and harmony, — 

Shadows which flit and fade on every pasture, 

Like to the flight of passing souls above, — 

Say, " Griev'd hearts, lay down the cherish'd creature, 

Let the grass quiver o'er our buried love ;" — 

All these are angels, offering no solution, 
Yet to my sickening mind they speak of peace ; 
Laying calm wings about our fierce emotion, 
Softly and lovingly they whisper " Cease." 

Here on this hill-top lay her ; she was lovely, 
Gentle, of knowledge wishful, brave to hold 
All sad fears silently ; the leaves shall tremble 
And the birds sing above her quiet mould. 

As she lov'd Nature, so be Nature round her, 

So may she best sleep, so we best attain 

To some composure, knowing Death ne'er bound her, 

And ere those trees lie low we meet again. 



( ?* ) 



TWO SCENES OF INFANCY. 



Quietly sleeping on its little couch 
The cherish'd infant lay ; its curly hair 
Twin'd lovingly about the tranquil brow, 
And droop'd caressing o'er its eyelids fair, 
As if to guard from harm some soft blue tinge 
Of those sweet eyes within their glossy fringe. 

Its small white limbs beneath the snowy folds, 
Models of infant beauty, strength and grace, 
Repos'd : a childish smile of love and glee 
Rested upon the yet untainted face : 
Its tiny hands enclos'd a scented flower, 
Cull'd in its evening sports at twilight hour. 



A year pass'd by ; and at the eventide 

A little child lay quietly, — and slept. 

Its innocent face was dew'd with tears as if 

Some loving eye had lately o'er it wept 

In agony of grief ; yet why were tears 

Shed for the pure in heart, the young in years ? 



TWO SCENES OF INFANCY. 75 

It is so quiet ; when we saw it last 

It smil'd, as though some airy sprite had brought 

A vision of gay fairy-land, and woven 

The golden tissue with its infant thought ; 

And the little heart beat softly as it press'd 

A fragrant blossom to its snowy breast. 

Mother ! — in former times the first-born son 
Was vow'd unto the Lord, and shalt thou now 
Murmur because Jehovah claims his own, 
And sets his seal upon thy darling's brow ? 
Shall thy devoted heart be found more cold 
Than Samuel's mother in the days of old ? 

Sever from that dear head one curly lock, 
And treasure it with care ; in after years, 
When gazing on it, think the others wave 
O'er eyes that gaze on Christ undimm'd by tears. 
Some truth, some warning made the trial fit : 
He gave, he took away. Do thou submit. 



e 2 



( 76 ) 



GIORGIONE AND VIOLANTE. 



I was a painter ; if I lov'd 

Her glorious face too much, 

It was that thought had carv'd its lines, — 

I worshipp'd it as such : 

Hour by hour I gaz'd on her, 

And trembled at her touch. 

The earnest fire of her deep eyes 

Burnt all her thoughts in me, 

Each smile that trembled round her mouth 

Struck me inwardly : 

Her voice went shivering through my heart 

Like a spheral harmony. 

Thus soul and gesture blended were, 

(Such Truth is truest Art) ; 

Her soul was as a shrine, wherein 

My hope was set apart ; 

And every thread of her golden hair 

Was twisted about my heart. 

And oftentimes I could not speak, 
Because my reverence fill'd me so 
That when I strove her pause to break 
The words came falteringly and slow ; 
It seem'd as though my thought met hers, 
And the double current would not flow. 



GIORGIOXE AXD VIOLAXTE. 77 

So she to me was sanctified, 
A symbol full of meanings holy, 
The dove sat brooding by her side 
With eyes unstain'd by melancholy ; 
Her face was fill'd with a woman's pride, 
And my spirit bow'd before her wholly. 

Oh ! fear sometimes possessing me 

Lest I were left and she were taken, 

" How could I paint again," I said, 

" For eyes which would no more awaken ?" 

Great God ! — Thou hast Eternity 

For every love by Time unshaken. 



( 78 ) 



THE MEETING OF PLATO AND HORACE IN 
THE ELYSIAN FIELDS. 



Among the crowd, one, with a gayer face 

Than most, came swaggering ; the Sabine Bard, 

The Roman Priest of Song, with grape-leaves crown'd, 

And tendrils of green ivy intermix'd. 

" I* faith," quoth he, in his sweet easy voice, 

And tender'd Plato sundry vellum leaves, 

Whereon were writ some lines, unforc'd and few, 

In liquid fire indited, which flash'd up 

Like eastern jewels, or the dawning beam 

Shed by the sun on dew-besprinkled vines, 

In clusters hanging on Falernian hills,— 

" I' faith," quoth he, " these summer songs shall be 

Torches enkindled on the sea of Time, 

No waves shall whelm them, and no breezes kill, 

Or deep night quench their lustre. They shall float 

And glitter midst the surges, dropping fire. 

Read these, old Plato ; I warrant they will chafe 

Thy dull blood to a quick and dancing flow ; 

Thou hadst no odes like these in thy life's day ! 

' Too many poets ! ' When humanity 

Shall lie i' the sun and dream, and weary cares 

Cease to weigh down the fainting hearts of men ; 

When Pelion shall on Ossa be upheav'd, 



MEETING OF PLATO AND HORACE. 79 

And men or Titans climb their steeps to heaven ; 

When Time shall fold his wings, impartial Death 

Cut down the beggar's boy and spare the king's ; 

Then from thy pillow banish songs like mine. 

Meantime I sing the glories of the grape, 

The midnight revel and the morning chace, 

Preach patience to the poor, and teach the rich 

How peace can dwell upon a Sabine hill. 

' Too many poets,' Plato ! Monarchs love 

Such wit as mine to speak their victories ; 

Young maidens love to listen to my lyre 

(Jove's benison on their sweet eyes !), and boys 

Sing o'er in treble tones my martial strains. 

There is much honesty in me, old sage, 

Much sober thought amidst my jollity, 

Much maxim wise by rattling tongue enforc'd ; 

Did I not ceaseless warn of life's brief span, 

The approach of night, the unerring stroke of Death, 

To rich and poor alike, harsh summoner ? " 

" Of Death," said Plato, " yea, to bid men drink. 

And waste the night in tumult ; to besmear 

The stately Roman face with purple wine, 

And all the long bright hours of summer days 

By glittering fountains stretch their lazy length 

Beneath green canopies, jesting to maids 

With water-pitchers on their graceful heads. 

A worthy citizen of mine wert thou ! 

A guide in our Republic, verily ! " 

The Sabine Poet stood, — and on his brow 

A serious shade stole quietly, while thus 

He answer gave the Athenian : " For mine age 

I was scarce worse than other men ; they lov'd — 



80 MEETING OF PLATO AND HORACE. 

Those royst'ring Romans of th' Augustan age — 

To quaff the bowl and sing of ladies' smiles ; 

But in this was I nobler — I have wrought 

Rich gems of imagery, legends of the past, 

Replete with glorious music, — -and with tears. 

I soften and refine ; my name shall last 

Long in the loving hearts of men, a niche 

Kings should be proud, most proud, their form should 

fill; 
And for the imperishable good I did, 
Mine evil be forgotten by mankind." 



( 81 ) 



MY OLD HOUSE. 



I liv'd in an old house, you ne'er saw one older, 

The wind whistled loud when the winter set in ; 

But I don't see why whistling need make the place 
colder, 

Nor why in not stopping cracks there should be sin. 
Ah ! poor little thing, dear little thing, — 
I've griev'd like a child since I heard that bell ring. 

Well, Sir, my old house had two rooms on a floor ; 
With one window, pray why should I pay to have more ? 
And as to the water between the bricks welling, 
Folks may talk, but I'll never do things for their telling! 
Why, yes, the bad air in those two rooms, I own, 
Was enough, I was told, to knock any man down ; 
But Lord, Sir ! I've liv'd and am now forty-six, 
And the saw says you'll scarce teach an old dog new 

tricks. 
I dirty ? Indeed, Sir, you 're quite wrong I know ; 
None cleaner in Hastings ; and if folks say so, 
'Tis because we 're like cats, Sir, and can't abide water, 
All our family, Sir, and wife's brother, Tim Carter. 
Ah ! poor little thing, dear little thing,- — 
How Tim did take on when he heard that bell ring ! 

I had one little daughter, Sir, fresh as a daisy, 
She made our old house joyful tho' it was crazy ; 

e 3 



82 MY OLD HOUSE. 

My darling ! a bit of red tipp'd her soft cheek, 

She could just run to school on her wee toddling feet. 

Then came the hot season, no breath of air stirr'd, 

The roll of the sea was the only sound heard, 

And down on the beach it was worse than elsewhere, 

The Devil of Fever seem'd riding the air. 

Ah ! poor little thing, dear little thing, — 

I dreamt his long thin fingers made that bell ring. 

I do not know why, Sir, indeed I can't tell, 

Why the young ones about us did not die as well ; 

'Tis nonsense to talk about houses, say I, 

I like my old house, tho' they call it a sty. 

So the fever came on, and it touch'd here and there, 

In the strangest chance way that you ever did hear ; 

They did say the deaths might be summ'd with bad 

drains, — 
If you think I think that, you 're a fool for your pains ; 
But my poor little thing, my dear little thing, — 
I scarce know what I think since I heard that bell 
ring ! 

So the fever came on, Sir ; my wife, stricken down, 

(As knowing a soul, Sir, as lives in the town, — 

None of your newfangled cranks about her), 

Will never be well in this world, Sir, I fear ; 

And poor little Polly, Sir, all the long day 

Lay tossing in agony, moaning away ; 

Her bright hair was matted with fever, and dull, 

It lay on my arm, Sir, who prided each curl ; 

Towards night, Sir, her pretty blue eyes became dim, 

But her little parch'd lips still kept muttering a hymn 



MY OLD HOUSE. 83 

She had learnt at the school, or some queer notion bred 
Of the hot fever poison would run in her head. 
Ah ! poor little thing, dear little thing, — 
She died like one mad, and I heard the bell ring. 

Indeed, Sir, tho' she was my darling and pride, 
I was thankful at heart when my poor Polly died. 
We buried her, Sir, safe at rest from her pain ; — 
And I, Sir ? — Went back to my Old House again ! 



( 84 ) 



EARTH'S QUESTION, 



" To lead a life divine ? " 
This is the question which, with upward strife, 
Earth to herself proposes, asking ever, 

" How shall I lead this life ? " 

And in her infancy 
From east and west according answer came, 
Poet and priest the doctrine taught and bless'd, 

" Divinity is Fame." 

In a more polish'd age, 
" Poor toilsome fools, fair women, fairer wine, 
Purple, fine linen, pictures, statues, gold, 

Beauty is most divine." 

Long-bearded sages then 
With still more scorn their own solution gave, — 
" Thought is the only good to be desir'd, 

Leave matter to the slave." 

God gave a helping word, 
But Earth was blind, and would misread the sign, 
Saying, " It means deny, fast, scourge, and pray,*— 

The ascetic is divine." 






EARTH'S QUESTION. 85 

And now we, year by year, 
Do painfully spell out our golden rule, 
In woe for its neglect ; the wisest men, 

The little child at school, 

Learning that wisdom, art, 
Denying vow, world's honour, are but slaves to love, 
Whose law encircles us with a command, 

Ev'n as its pleadings move. 

We are not free to choose, 
But ever find our portions strictly meted 
When we look purely for them, and a sign 

Of blessing if completed : 

Set in a narrow groove, 
In our obedience alone made free 
With freedom worth the purchase, and enjoin'd 

To work it silently : 

Which following 
In meek surrender, — "Not my will but Thine" — 
Is, in its aspect, fruit, and consciousness, 

Indeed a Life Divine. 



THE REPLY OF THE FAIRIES. 



Where do we hide when the year is old, 

When the days are short and the nights are cold ? 

Where ? 
When the flowers have laid them down to die, 
And the winds rush past with a hollow sigh, 
And witches and fiends on their broomsticks ride, 
Where do we delicate fairies hide ? 

Where ? 

Some of us borrow the white mouse skin, 
(Our gossamer dresses are far too thin), 
And get up a ball in the palace of ice, 
With a hop and a skip we are there in a trice ; 
And we don't go home from these midnight balls 
Till the sun lights up our diamond halls, 
We don't go home till morning. 

The queer old elves of the Northern land 
Welcome our beautiful fairy band, 
Praise our eyes and our curling hair, 
Our nimble steps and our music rare, 
Our golden crowns and the gems we wear, 
And all our rich adorning. 

Sometimes we fly to the noonday isles, 
Where summer for ever unfading smiles, 



THE REPLY OF THE FAIRIES. 87 

And crumple the tropical flowers for beds, 
Where fairies nestle their small tir'd heads ; 
But when the stars of the South shine bright, 
We chase the firefly thro* the night ; 
When the tigers growl and the lions roar 
We fly over their heads and laugh the more, 
And pinch their ears and their tails for spite, — 
These are our games on a tropical night. 

Sometimes we visit the children of earth, 

And take up our stand at the social hearth ; 

We hover and sing by the couch of pain, 

Till the frighten'd dreamer smiles again ; 

We polish the lash of a deep-blue eye, 

And hush the troublesome baby's cry, 

And make mushrooms grow on our verdant rings, 

Are not we fairies good little things ? 

As the dormouse curl'd in its darken'd grave, 
As the mermen and maids in the ice-bound cave, 
As the poor scarlet-breast when it longs for a crumb, 
As the naked woods when the birds are dumb, 
As the torrent penn'd up in its glittering sheath, 
We welcome the sight of the first green leaf. 



THE TEACHING OF CORNELIUS. 



Who holds us heart to heart it mattereth not, 
If Thou, who holdest all within thy hand, 
Wilt say, " Well done ! " upon our outward lot 
Thy blessing oft is burnt with fiery brand. 
If we, thus humbly reading, clasp it close, 
Accepting every law which lies therein, 
Thou (who hast covenanted) wilt unloose 
Our hearts from longing and our souls from sin. 
The love abash'd, the shuddering dread, the fail 
Of hopeful courage, unheroic fear, 
All that we cannot conquer, being frail, 
God of the Faithful ! help thou us to bear. 
Alone, O tender Christ ! we cannot be, 
When every street we pass is mark'd by thee, 
And glances born of thy great Spirit shine 
From fellow-faces with a light divine. 
Oh, look'd we clearly on the sharp ascent 
So many elder pilgrim-feet have trod, 
Seeing the End, we should not dare to faint, 
Nor speak of loneliness — alone with God ! 

Die Ludwig Kirche, Munich. 



( 89 ) 



LITTLE SARAH. 



Ye who though unseen are near. 
Guard her from all harm, 
Watch her well, encompass her 
With every potent charm ; 
Bend above her slumbers, 
Kiss her waking eye, 
Soothe with your sweet numbers 
Each feeble infant cry. 



Away from every danger 
Besetting baby feet 
Turn her little footsteps far, 
Guardian angels sweet : 
Ever on her quiet lot 
Your watchful gazes keep ; 
Shadow her and shelter her, 
Waking or asleep. 



( 90 ) 



THE OLD PALACE GARDEN. 



We dwelt in an old palace near to Rome ; 

It was decay'd from its magnificence, 

But not less beautiful than when the sun 

Shone on the freshness of its marble pride. 

Those fair Italian gardens of old time ! 

Sloping in many terraces adown 

A gentle hill unto the southern beam ; 

Such was our father's. Many fountains leap'd 

With murmuring music in the soften'd light, 

Or, hush'd to quietness by age, crept forth 

Lazily from the overflowing brim 

Of each carv'd basin, and, slow trickling down, 

Deepen'd the gracious hue of turfy lawns. 

There in profusion glow'd such gorgeous flowers 

As thou of northern birth hast never seen — 

The paler children of thy English home 

Exulting in Italian warmth and light : 

Burning red roses, and the snowy heath, 

The lofty silver rod, the asphodel, 

'Midst stately verdant walls of closest trim, 

Wherein our ancestors took such delight ; 

Hawthorn and myrtle hedges, and thick wreaths 

Of honeysuckle flaunting in the breeze ; 



THE OLD PALACE GARDEN. 91 

Wild brier and ivy, and the golden fringe 
Of gorse, o'erhanging many a craggy bank 
Of the Campagna, we transplanted there ; 
Such passionate flowers, daughters of Italy, 
Where everything is beautiful and strong. 
Then in those gardens were rich gems of art, 
Nymphs, Fawns, and Dryads carv'd in living stone, 
Instinct with grace, who peopled solemn groves 
With genius, tho' the master-hand were cold. 
From the steep terraces we look'd abroad 
On Rome and all her towers, the far expanse 
Of verdant loneliness around her spread, 
And the blue mountains melting in the sky. 



( 92 ) 



TO BIRMINGHAM. 



Dear smoky Birmingham, since long ago 

I left your native streets, my heart and hope 

Have been with those dense crowds which daily flow 

Over their pavements, finding ample scope 

For meditation and for thought-born plan 

Of active life within the destinies 

Of these my fellow-townsmen. Every man 

Inherits a great memory, how was won, 

Hardly, the first of many victories 

Over Feudality ; and a command 

Insep'rably goes with it hand in hand, 

That, as the father strove, should strive the son. 

Therefore, brave Town, say to thy best ones, " Rise, 

Leav'ning the masses with your master energies." 

May every effort as the spring-dew fall 

On a prepared soil, and, like the ore 

On which you spend your labour, may there spring 

From out your social depths a noble power 

To cope with and work out each worthy thing. 






TO 



* * * * * 



I was a child when first I read your books, 

And lov'd you dearly, so far as I could see 

Your obvious meanings, your more subtle depths 

Being then (as still, perhaps,) a mystery. 

I had no awe of you, so much does love, 

In simple daring, all shy fears transcend ; 

And when they told me, " You shall travel south," 

I chiefly thought, " In Florence dwells my friend !" 

In those first days I seldom heard your name, 

You seem'd in my strange fancy all my own, 

Or else as if you were some saint in Heaven 

Whose image took my bookcase for a throne. 

As time went on, your words flew far and wide, 

I heard them quoted, critically scann'd 

With grave intentness, learnt, half mournfully, 

That you were a great Poet in the land, 

So far, so far from me, who lov'd you so, 

And never might one human blessing claim ; 

Yet oh ! how I rejoic'd that you were great, 

And all my heart exulted in your fame ; 

A woman's fame, and yours ! I use no words 

Of any careful beauty, being plain 

As earnestness, and quiet as that Truth 

Which shrinks from any flattering speech with pain. 

Indeed, I should not dare — but that this love, 

Long nurs'd, demands expression, and alone 

Speaks by love's dear strength — to approach near you 

In words so weak and poor beside your own. 



f/t' <+ fa & filC+^^C fr~ /i ^t^J 4+^y< 



( 94 ) 



TO E. B. 

At New York. 



I saw you seated in your lonely room, 

Of human friends forlorn, of spirits full, 

Who gave you comfort in your solitude, 

And spoke to you in accents beautiful. 

Hearing your voice, unknown, my spirit leapt 

(Which, knowing, I have learnt to call so dear), 

Fond memory of that first hour have I kept, 

Tho' scantly its result recorded here ; 

But in my heart such thoughts to it belong, 

As hath, of its little fount, a river deep and strong. 

And now to those far shores, I say, God speed, 
Where I have never been, but often now 
That anxious heart will of your path take heed, 
And daily pray success may crown your brow, 
Shedding its glory on your quiet face, 
Which needs that baptism, dear friend, no less 
That you are strong, upheld in no embrace, 
And, deeply natur'd, if unbless'd could bless. 

By years of loving hope at length fulfill' d 
In our true friendship, by a common aim, 
By weariness subdu'd and doubtings still'd, 
By joint allegiance to a slander'd name ; 
By that eternity towards which we speed, 
By glorious faiths we would incarnate here, 
. By ties which nor of space nor time take heed, 
I charge you, going hence, to hold me dear. 

/* <£/7j ****** /3i^kc/(< 



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this stamp is sure to teach you much, be- 
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enthusiasm, to vindicate his country, and 
obtain for it its proper interest in the 
eyes of Europe. The English is wonder- 
ful I never saw any approach to 

such a style in a foreigner before — as full 
of beauty in diction as in thought." — Sir 
JE. Bulwer Lytton, Bart. 

" I recognise the rare chraacteristics of 
genius — a large conception of the topic, a 
picturesque diction founded on profound 
thought, and that passionate sensibility 
which becomes the subject — a subject 
beautiful as its climate, and inexhaustible 
as its soil." — B. Disraeli, Esq., M.P. 

"A very ra./id and summary resume of 
the fortunes of Italy from the fall of the 
Roman Empire to the present moment.— 
A work of industry and labour, written 
with a good purpose. — A bird's-eye view 
of the subject that will revive the recol- 
lections of the scholar, and seduce the 
tyro into a longer course of reading." — 
Athenceum. 

" This work contains more information 
on the subject, and more references to 
the present position of Italy, than we 
have seen in any recent production." — 
Foreign Quarterly Review. 

" In reference to style, the work before 



us is altogether extraordinary, as that of 
a foreigner, and in the higher quality of 
thought we may commend the author for 
his acute, and often original, criticism, 
and his quick perception of the grand and 
beautiful in his native literature." — Pres- 
cott, in the North American Review. 

" The work before us consists of a con- 
tinuous parallel of the political and lite- 
rary history of Italy from the earliest 
period of the middle ages to the present 
time. The author not only penetrates 
the inner relations of those dual appear- 
ances of national life, but possesses the 
power of displaying them to the reader 
with great clearness and effect. We re- 
member no other work in which the civil 
conditions and literary achievements of a 
people have been blended in such a series 
of living pictures, representing successive 
periods of history." — Algemeine Zeitung. 

"An earnest and eloquent work." — 
Examiner. 

"A work ranking distinctly in the class 
of belles-lettres, and well deserving of a 
library place in England." — Literary 
Gazette. 

"A work warmly admired by excellent 
judges." — Tait's Magazine. 

"An admirable work, written with great 
power and beauty." — Prof. Longfellow. — 
Poets and Poetry of Europe. 



i<gg 3^ - 



z&^rB^B 



HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 



The Life of Jean Paul Ft, Richter , Compiled 

from various sources. Together with his Autobiography, translated 
from the German. Second Edition. Illustrated with a Portrait 
engraved on Steel. Post 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d. P. Is. 



? 



" The autobiography of Richter, which 
extends only to his twelfth year, i3 one of 
the most interesting studies of a true poet's 
childhood ever given to the world." — 
Lotos's Edinburgh Magazine. 

" Richtei has an intellect vehement, 
rugged, irresistible, crushing in pieces the 
hardest problems ; piercing into the most 
hidden combinations of things, and grasp- 
ing the most distant; an imagination 
vague, sombre, splendid, or appalling, 
brooding over the abysses of being, wan- 
dering through infinitude, and summoning 
before us, in its dim religious light, shapes 
of brilliancy, solemnity, or terror ; a fancy 
of exuberance literally unexampled, for it 
pours its treasures with a lavishness which 
knows no limit, hanging, like the sun, a 
jewel on every grass-blade, and sowing the 
earth at large with orient pearls. But 
deeper than all these lies humour, the 
ruling quality of Richter— as it were the 
central fire that pervades and vivifies his 
whole being. He is a humorist from his 
inmost soul; he thinks as a humorist; 
he imagines, acts, feels as a humorist ; 
sport is the element in which his nature 
lives and works."— Thomas Carlyle. 

" With such a writer it is no common 
treat to be intimately acquainted. In the 
proximity of great and virtuous minds we 
imbibe a portion of their nature,— feel, as 
mesmerists say, a healthful coutagion, are 
braced with the same spirit of faith, hope, 
and patient endurance — are furnished 
with data for clearing up and working out 
the intricate problem of life, and are in- 
spired, like them, with the prospect of 
immortality. No reader of sensibility can 
rise from the perusal of these volumes 
without becoming both wiser and better." 
— Atlas. 

" Apart from the interest of the work, as 
the life of Jean Paul, the reader learns 
something of German life and German 
thought, and is introduced to Weimar 
during its most distinguished period— 
when Goethe, Schiller, Herder, and Wie- 
land, the great fixed stars of Germany, in 
conjunction with Jean Paul, Were there, 
surrounded by beautiful and admiring 



women, of the most refined and exalted 
natures, and of princely rank. It is full 
of passages so attractive and valuable, that 
it is difficult to make a selection as ex- 
amples of its character." — Inquirer. 

" The work is a useful exhibition of a 
great and amiable man, who, possessed of . 
the kindliest feelings, and the most bril- 
liant fantasy, turned to a high purpose 
that humour of which Rabelais is the great 
grandfather, and Sterne one of the line of 
ancestors, and contrasted it with an ex- 
altation of feeling and a rhapsodical poetry 
which are entirely his own. Let us hope 
that it will complete the work begun by 
Mr. Carlyle's Essays, and cause Jean Paul 
to be really read in this country." — Ex- 
aminer. 

" Richter is exhibited in a most ami- 
able light in this biography— industrious, 
frugal, benevolent, with a child-like sim- 
plicity of character and a heart overflow- 
ing with the purest love. His letters to 
his wife are beautiful memorials of true 
affection, and the way in which he perpe- 
tually speaks of his children shows that 
he was the most attached and indulgent 
of fathers. Whoever came within the 
sphere of his companionship appears to 
have contracted an affection for him that 
death only dissolved : and while his name 
was resounding through Germany, he re- 
mained as meek and humble as if he had 
still been an unknown adventurer on Par- 
nassus." — The Apprentice. 

" The ' Life of Jean Paul ' is a charming 
piece of biography which draws and rivets 
the attention. The affections of the reader 
are fixed on the hero with an intensity 
rarely bestowed on an historical charac- 
ter. It is impossible to read this bio- 
graphy without a conviction of its inte- 
grity and truth; and though Richter's 
style is more difficult of translation than 
that of any other German, yet we feel 
that his golden thoughts have reached 
us pure from the mine, to which he has 
given that impress of genius which makes 
them current in all countries."— Christian 
Reformer. 



Histoire des Crimes du Deux 




Par VICTOR SCHCELCHER, Representant du Peuple. 

cloth, 7s. 6d. 



Decembre, 

Post 8vo ; 



I 



^5^- 



^£g$§ 




MR. chapman's publications. 



The JLife of the Rev, Joseph Blanco White, 

Written by Himself. With Portions of his Correspondence. Edited 
by JOHN HAMILTON THOM. 3 vols, post 8vo, cloth. Original 
price, £1 4s.; reduced to 15s. P. 2s. 



" This is a book which rivets the atten- 
tion, and makes the heart bleed. It has, 
indeed, with regard to himself, in its sub- 
stance, though not in its arrangement, an 
almost dramatic character; so clearly and 
strongly is the living, thinking, active 
man projected from the face of the re- 
cords which he has left. 

"His spirit was a battle-field, upon 
which, with fluctuating fortune and sin- 
gular intensity, the powers of belief and 
scepticism waged, from first to last, their 
unceasing war ; and within the compass of 
his experience are presented to our view 
most of the great moral and spiritual pro- 
blems that attach to the condition of our 
race." — Quarterly Review. 

"This book will improve his (Blanco 
"White's) reputation. There is much in 



the peculiar construction of his mind, in 
its close union of the moral with the intel- 
lectual faculties, and in its restless desire 
for truth, which may remind the reader 
of Dr. Arnold." — Examiner. 

" There is a depth and force in this book 
which tells." — Christian Remembrancer . 

" These volumes have an interest be- 
yond the character of Blanco White. And 
beside the intrinsic interest of his self-por- 
traiture, whose character is indicated in 
some of our extracts, the correspondence, 
in the letters of Lord Holland, Southey, 
Coleridge, Channing, Norton, Mill, Pro- 
fessor Powell, Dr. Hawkins, and other 
names of celebrity, has considerable at- 
tractions in itself, without any relation to 
the biographical purpose with which it 
was published." — Spectator. 



Historical Analysis of Christian Civiliza- 
tion. By Professor DE VERICOUR. Post 8vo, cloth. Original 
price, 10s. 6d. ; reduced to 6s. P. Is. 



The History of Ancient Art among the 

Greeks. By JOHN WINCKELMANN. From the German, by 
G. H. Lodge. Beautifully illustrated. 8vo ; cloth. Original price, 
12s. : reduced to 6s. P. Is. 



'<L 



" That Winckelmann was well fitted for 
the task of writing a History of Ancient 
Art, no one can deny who is acquainted 
with his profound learning and genius. 

He undoubtedly possessed in the 

highest degree the power of appreciating 
artistic skill wherever it was met with, but 
never more so than when seen in the garb 

of antiquity The work is of ' no 

common order,' and a careful study of the 
great principles embodied in it must ne- 
cessarily tend to form a pure, correct, and 
elevated taste." — Eclectic Review. 

" The work is throughout lucid, and free 
from the pedantry of technicality. Its 
clearness constitutes its great charm. It 
does not discuss any one subject at great 
length, but aims at a general view of Art, 
with attention to its minute developments. 
It is, if we may use the phrase, a Grammar 
of Greek Art, a sine qua non to all who 
would thoroughly investigate its language 
of form." — Literary World. 

" Winckelman is a standard writer, to 
whom most students of art have been more 



or less indebted. He possessed extensive 
information, a refined taste, and great zeal. 
His style is plain, direct, and specific, so 
that you are never at a loss for his mean- 
ing. Some very good outlines, representing 
fine types of Ancient Greek Art, illustrate 
the text, and the volume is got up in a 
style worthy of its subject." — Spectator. 

" To all lovers of art, this volume will 
furnish the most necessary and safe guide 
in studying the pure principles of nature 

and beauty in creative art We 

cannot wish better to English art than 
for a wide circulation of this invaluable 
work." — Standard of Freedom. 

" The mixture of the philosopher and 
artist in Winckelman's mind gave it at 
once an elegance, penetration, and know- 
ledge, which fitted him to a marvel for 

the task he undertook Such 

a work ought to be in the library of every 
artist and man of taste, and even the 
most general reader will find in it much 
to instruct, and much to interest him." — 
Atlas. 



^^3§i 



-eQ 



POETRY AND FICTION. 



Life and Letters of Judge Story, the eminent 

American Jurist, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the 
United States, and Dane Professor of Law at Harvard University. 
Edited by his Son, WILLIAM W. STORY. With a Portrait. 
2 vols. 8vo, cloth. Original price, £1 10s.; reduced to £1. P. 3s. 

"Greater than any Law Writer of which I stone." — Lord Campbell, in the House of 
England can boast since the days of Black- | Lords, April 7, 1843. 



The Village Pearl: A Domestic Poem; with Mis- 
cellaneous Pieces. By JOHN CRAWFORD WILSON. Fcap. 
8vo, cloth, Ss. 6d. 



The Nemesis of Faith. 

Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford. 



By J. A. FROUDE, M.A., late 
Post 8vo, cloth, 6s. P. Qd. 



" ' The Nemesis of Faith' possesses the 
first requisites of a book. It has power, 
matter, and mastery of subject, with that 
largeness which must arise from the 
writer's mind, and that individual cha- 
racter — those truths of detail — which 
spring from experience or observation. 
The pictures of an English home in child- 
hood, youth, and early manhood, as well 
as the thoughts and feelings of the student 
at Oxford, are painted with feeling per- 
vaded by a current of thought: the re- 
marks on the humbug of the three learned 
professions, more especially on the world- 
liness of the church, are not mere decla- 
mation, but the outpouring of an earnest 
conviction : the Picture of Anglican Pro- 
testantism, dead to faith, to love, and to 
almost everything but wealth-worship, 
with the statement of the objects that 
Newman first proposed to himself, form 
the best defence of Tractarianism that has 
appeared, though defence does not seem to 

be the object of the author As the 

main literary object is to display the 
struggles of a mind with the growth and 
grounds of opinion, incidents are subordi- 
nate to the intellectual results that spring 
from them: but there is no paucity of in- 
cident if the work be judged by its own 
standard." — Spectator. 

" The most striking quality in Mr. 
Froude's writings is his descriptive elo- 
quence. His characters are all living 
before us, and have no sameness. His 
quickness of eye is manifest equally in his 




insight into human minds, and in his per- 
ceptions of natural beauty The 

style of the letters is everywhere charm- 
ing. The confessions of a Sceptic are often 
brilliant, and always touching. The clos- 
ing narrative is fluent, graphic, and only 
too highly wrought in painful beauty." — 
Prospective Review, May, 1849. 

" The book becomes in its soul-burning 
truthfulness, a quite invaluable record of 
the fiery struggles and temptations through 
which the youth of this nineteenth century 
has to force its way in religious matters. 

Especially is it a great warning 

and protest against three great falsehoods. 
Against self-deluded word orthodoxy and 
bibliolatry, setting up the Bible for a mere 
dead idol instead of a living witness to 
Christ. Against frothy philosophic Infi- 
delity, merely changing the chaff of old 
systems for the chaff of new, addressing 
men's intellects and ignoring their spirits. 
Against Tractarianism, trying to make 
men all belief, as Strasburgers make 
geese all liver, by darkness and cram- 
ming; manufacturing state folly as the 
infidel state wisdom: deliberately giving 
the lie to God, who has made man in 
his own image, body, soul, and spirit, by 
making the two first decrepit for the 

sake of pampering the last 

Against these three falsehoods, we say, 
does the book before us protest : after its 
own mournful fashion, most strongly when 
most unconsciously." — Fraser's Mas., 
May, 1849. 



9 



J 



<^c^g _- 




c<^£ ®& 



MR. CHAPMAN S PUBLICATIONS. 



Essays^ Poems, Allegories, and Fables, By 

JANUARY SEARLE. 8vo, 4s. 



Poems by R, W. Emerson Post 8vo, cloth, 4*. 



Noricaj or, Tales of Niirnberg from the Olden Time. 
Translated from the German of August Hagen. Fcp. 8vo, orna- 
mental binding, suitable for presentation, uniform with "The 
Artist's Married Life." Original price. 7s. 6d. : reduced to 5s. 
P. U. 



" This pleasant volume is got up in that 
style of imitation of the books of a cen- 
tury ago, which has of late become so 
much the vogue. The typographical and 
mechanical departments of the volume 
speak loudly for the taste and enterprise 
employed upon it. Simple in its style, 
quaint, pithy, reasonably pungent — the 
book smacks strongly of the picturesque 
old days of which it treats. A long study 
of the art-antiquities of Niirnberg, and a 
profound acquaintance with the records, 
letters, and memoirs, still preserved, of 
the times of Albert Diirer and his great 
brother artists, have enabled the author 
to lay before us a forcibly-drawn and 
highly-finished picture of art and house- 
hold life in that wonderfully art-practising 
and art-reverencing old city of Germany." 
— Atlas. 

" A delicious little book. It is full of a 
quaint garrulity, and characterized by an 
earnest simplicity of thought and diction, 
which admirably conveys to the reader the 



household and artistic German life of the 
times of Maximilian. Albert Diirer, and 
Hans Sachs, the celebrated cobbler and 
' master singer,' as well as most of the 
artist celebrities of Niirnberg in the 1 6th 
century. Art is the chief end and aim of 
this little history. It is lauded and praised 
with a sort of unostentatious devotion, 
which explains the religious passion of the 
early moulders of the ideal and the beau- 
tiful ; and, perhaps, through a consequent 
deeper concentration of thought, the secret 
of their success." — Weekly Dispatch. 

" A volume full of interest for the lover 
of old times; while the form in which it 
is presented to us may incite many to 
think of art, and look into its many won- 
drous influences with a curious earnest- 
ness unknown to them before. It points 
a moral also, in the knowledge that a 
people may be brought to take interest in 
what is chaste and beautiful as in what 
is coarse and degrading." — Manchester 
Examiner. 



Hearts in Mortmain, and Cornelia, A Novel, 

in 1 vol. Post 8vo ; cloth. Original price, 10s. 6d. ; reduced to 
5s. P. 6d. 



" To come to such writings as ' Hearts 
in Mortmain, and Cornelia' after the 
anxieties and roughness of our worldly 
struggle, is like bathing in fresh waters 
after the dust and heat of bodily exertion. 

To a peculiar and attractive grace 

they join considerable dramatic power, 
and one or two of the characters are con- 
ceived and executed with real genius." — 
Prospective Review. 

" Both stories contain matter of thought 
and reflection which would set up a dozen 
common-place circulating-library produc- 
tions." — Examiner. 

"It is not often now-a-days that two 
works of such a rare degree of excellence 
in their class are to be found in one 

<2C\ 



volume ; it is rarer still to find two works, 
each of which contains matter for two 
volumes, bound up in these times in one 
cover."— Observer. 

" The above is an extremely pleasing 
book. The first story is written in the an- 
tiquated form of letters, but its simplicity 
and good taste redeem it from the tedi- 
ousness and appearance of egotism which 
generally attend that style of composi- 
tion." — Economist. 

" Well written and interesting." — Daily 
News. 

" Two very pleasing and elegant novels. 
Some passages display descriptive powers 
of a high order." — Britannia. 



<^gm® 



■eQ 



POETRY AND FICTION. 



The Siege Of Damascus j An Historical Romance. 

By JAMES NISBET. In 3 vols, post 8vo, cloth. Original price, 

£1 lis. 6d. ; reduced to 10s. P. Is. %d. 
" A romance of very unusual power, I may be pronounced beyond the average of 
such as must arrest attention by its quali- modern novelists .... whilst descriptive 
ties as a work of fiction, and help the good | passages might be selected that betray a 



cause of liberty of thought." — Leader, 

" There is an occasional inequality of 
style in the writing, but, on the whole, it 



very high order of merit." — Manchester 
Examiner. 



Peter Jones ; or, 

12mo, price 3s. P. 6< 



Onward Bound. An Autobiography. 



Reverberations. Part I., 1*. Part II., 2s. Fcp. 



8vo, paper cover. 
" In this little verse-pamphlet of some 
sixty or seventy pages, we think we see 
evidences of a true poet ; of a fresh and 
natural fount of genuine song ; and of a 
purpose and sympathy admirably suited to 

the times The purchaser of it will 

find himself richer in possessing it by 
many wise and charitable thoughts, many 
generous emotions, and much calm and 
quiet, yet deep reflection." — Examiner. 



" Remarkable for earnestness of thought 
and strength of diction."— Morning Herald. 

" The author of these rhymed brochures 
has much of the true poetic spirit. He is 
always in earnest. He writes from the full 
heart. There is a manliness, too, in all his 
utterances that especially recommends 

them to us As long as we have such 

' Eeverberations ' as these, we shall never 
grow weary of them." — Weekly News. 



The Artist* s Married Life \ Being that of Albert 

Dtirer. Translated from the German of Leopold Schefer, by Mrs. 
J. R. STODART. 1 vol. fcp. 8vo, ornamental binding, 6s. P. 6d. 



" It is the worthy aim of the novelist to 
show that even the trials of genius are part 
of its education — that its very wounds are 

furrows for its harvest No one, 

indeed, would have a right to expect from 
the author of the ' Laienbrevier ' (see 
Athenaum, No. 437) such a stern and for- 
cible picture of old times and trials as a 
Meinhold can give — still less the wire- 
drawn sentimentalities of a Hahn-Hahn ; 
but pure thoughts — high morals — tender 

feelings — might be looked for The 

merits of this story consist in its fine pur- 
pose, and its thoughtful, and for the most 
part just, exposition of man's inner life. 
To those who, chiefly appreciating such 
qualities, can dispense with the stimulants 
of incident and passion, the book before us 
will not be unacceptable." — Athenaeum. 



" The work reminds us of the happiest 

efforts of Tieck The design is to 

show how, in spite of every obstacle, 
genius will manifest itself to the world, 
and give shape and substance to its beau- 
tiful dreams and fancies It is 

a very pure and delightful composition, is 
tastefully produced in an antique style, 
and retains in the translation all the pe- 
culiarities (without which the book would 
lose half its merit) of German thought 
and idiom." — Britannia. 

" Simply then we assure our readers 
that we have been much pleased with this 
work. The narrative portion is well con- 
ceived, and completely illustrates the 
author's moral; while it is interspersed 
with many passages which are full of 
beauty and pathos." — Inquirer. 



The Bishop's Wife : A Tale of the Papacy. Trans- 
lated from the German of Schefer, by Mrs. J. R. STODART. Fcp. 
8vo, cloth gilt. Original price, 4s. ; reduced to 2s. P. 6d. 

Three Experiments of Living: Within the 

Means. Up to the Means. Beyond the Means. Fcp. 8vo, orna- 
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■<?<^^m. 



An Analytical Catalogue of Mr. Chapman's 

Publications. Price Is. P. 6d. 

%* To enable the reader to judge for himself of the merits of Mr. 
Chapman's publications, irrespective of the opinions of the press — 
whether laudatory or otherwise — an Analytical Catalogue has been 
prepared, which contains an abstract of each work, or, at least, such 
an amount of information regarding it as will furnish him with a 
clear conception of its general aim and scope. At the same time, 
from the way in which the Catalogue is drawn up, it comprises a 
condensed body of Ideas and Facts, in themselves of substantive 
interest and importance, and is therefore, intrinsically, well worthy 
the attention of the Student. 



Cheap Books, and how to get them. Being 

a Reprint, from the Westminster Review for April, 1852, of the 
article on " The Commerce of Literature ;" together with a Brief 
Account of the Origin and Progress of the Recent Agitation for Free 
Trade in Books. By JOHN CHAPMAN. To which is added, the 
judgment pronounced by Lord Campbell. Second Edition. Price Is. 
P. 6d. 



A Report of the Proceedings of a Meeting 

(consisting chiefly of Authors) held May 4th, at the House of Mr. 
John Chapman, 142, Strand, for the purpose of hastening the re- 
moval of the Trade Restrictions on the Commerce of Litevature. 
Third Edition. Price 2d. 



Two Orations against taking away Human 

Life, under any Circumstances; and in Explanation and Defence of 
the Misrepresented Doctrine of Non-Resistance. By THOMAS 
COOPER, Author of "The Purgatory of Suicides." Post 8vo, in 
paper cover, Is. P. 6d. 
" Mr. Cooper possesses undeniable abili- j the highest degree manly, plain, and vigor- 
ties of no mean order, and moral courage j ous." — Morning Advertiser. 

beyond many The manliness with | " These two orations are thoroughly im- 

which he avows, and the boldness and zeal bued with the peace doctrines which have 
with which he urges, the doctrinesof peace lately been making rapid progress in many 
and love, respect for human rights, and ] unexpected quarters. To all who take an 
moral power, in these lectures, are worthy interest in that great movement, we would 
of all honour." — Nonconformist. j recommend this book, on account of the 

" Mr. Cooper's style is intensely clear fervid eloquence and earnest truthfulness 
and forcible, and displays great earnest- j which pervade every line of it."— Man- 
nas and fine human sympathy ; it is in I Chester Examiner. 



ite^ 3 - 



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MISCELLANEA. 



Stories for Sunday Afternoons. By Mrs. 

DAWSON. Square 18mo, cloth.. Is. 6d. P. 6d. 



" This is a very pleasing little volume, 
■which we can confidently recommend. It 
is designed and admirably adapted for the 
use of children from five to eleven years of 
age. It purposes to infuse into that tender 
age some acquaintance with the facts, and 
taste for the study of the Old Testament. 
The style is simple, easy, and for the most 



part correct. The stories are told in a 
spirited and graphic manner. 

" Those who are engaged in teaching the 
young, and in laying the foundation of 
good character by early religious and 
moral impressions, will be thankful for 
additional resources of a kind so judicious 
as this volume." — Inquirer. 



( 



Essays by Emerson, Second Series, with Preface, 

by THOS. CARLYLE. Post 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. P. 6d. 

" The difficulty we find in giving a pro- l and new images, and those who have not 
per notice of this volume arises from the | a feeling or an interest in the great ques- 



pervadingness of its excellence, and the 
compression of its matter. With more 
learning than Hazlitt, more perspicuity 
than Carlyle, more vigour and depth of 
thought than Addison, and with as much 
originality and fascination as any of them, 
this volume is a brilliant addition to the 
Table Talk of intellectual men, be they 
who or where they may." — Prospective 
JRevieiv. 

" Mr. Emerson is not a common man, 
and everything he writes contains sugges- 
tive matter of much thought and earnest- 
ness." — Examiner. 

" That Emerson is, in a high degree, 
possessed of the faculty and vision of the 
seer, none can doubt who will earnestly 
and with a kind and reverential spirit 
peruse these nine Essays. He deals only 
with the true and the eternal. His pierc- 
ing gaze at once shoots swiftly, surely, 
through the outward and the superficial, 
to the inmost causes and workings. Any 
one can tell the time who looks on the 



tion of mind and matter, eternity and 
nature, will disregard him as unintelligi- 
ble and uninteresting, as they do Bacon 
and Plato, and, indeed, philosophy itself." 
—Douglas Jerrold's Magazine. 

" Beyond social science, because beyond 
and outside social existence, there lies the 
science of self, the development of man in 
his individual existence, within himself 
and for himself. Of this latter science, 
which may perhaps be called the philo- 
sophy of individuality, Mr. Emerson is an 
able apostle and interpreter." — League. 

"As regards the particular volume of 
Emerson before us, we think it an im- 
provement upon the first series of essays. 
The subjects are better chosen. They 
come home more to the experience of the 
mass of mankind, and are consequently 
more interesting. Their treatment also 
indicates an artistic improvement in the 
composition." — Spectator. 

"All lovers of literature will read Mr. 
Emerson's new volume, as the most of 



face of the clock, but he loves to lay bare j them have read his former one ; and if 



the machinery and show its moving prin 
ciple. His words and his thoughts are a 
fresh spring, that invigorates the soul that 
is steeped therein. His mind is ever 
dealing with the eternal ; and those who 
only live to exercise their lower intellec 



tual faculties, and desire only new facts [ Inquirer 



correct taste, and sober views of life, and 
such ideas on the higher subjects of 
thought as we have been accustomed to 
account as truths, are sometimes outraged, 
we at least meet at every step with origi- 
nality, imagination, and eloquence." — 



The Beauties Of Channing. With an Introductory 
By WILLIAM MOUNTFOKD. 12mo, cloth, 2s. 6d. 



" This is really a book of beauties. It is 
no collection of shreds and patches, but a 
faithful representative of a mind which 
deserves to have its image reproduced in 
a thousand forms. It is such a selection 
from Channing as Channing himself might 
have made. It is as though we had the 
choicest passages of those divine discourses 



!>^9^ 



read to us by a kindred spirit 

Those who have read Martyria will feel 
that no man can be better qualified than 
its author, to bring together those passages 
which are at once most characteristic, and 
most rich in matter tending to the moral 
and religious elevation of human beings." 
— Inquirer. 



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William von Humboldt's Letters to a 

Female Friend. A Complete Edition. Translated from the Second 
German Edition. By CATHERINE M. A. COUPER, Author of 



" Visits to Beechwood Farm, 
post 8vo, cloth, 10s. P. Is. 

" We cordially recommendthese volumes 

to the attention of our readers 

The work is in every way worthy of the 
character and experience of its distin- 
guished author." — Daily News. 

" These admirable letters were, we 
believe, first introduced to notice in 
England by the ' Athenaeum ;' and per- 
haps no greater boon was ever conferred 
upon the English reader than in the pub- 
lication of the two volumes which contain 
this excellent translation of William Hum- 
boldt's portion of a lengthened corre- 
spondence with his female friend." — 
Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Re- 
view. 

" The beautiful series of W. von Hum- 
boldt's letters, now for the first time 
translated and published complete, pos- 



Lucy's Half-Crown," &e. 2 vols. 



sess not only high intrinsic interest, but 
an interest arising from the very striking 
circumstances in which they originated. 

We wish we had space to verify 

our remarks. But we should not know 
where to begin, or where to end; we 
have therefore no alternative but to re- 
commend the entire book to careful pe- 
rusal, and to promise a continuance of 
occasional extracts into our columns from 
the beauties of thought and feeling with 
which it abounds." — Manchester Exa- 
miner and Times. 

"It is the only complete collection of 
these remarkable letters, which has yet 
been published in English, and the transla- 
tion is singularly perfect; we have seldom 
read such a rendering of German thoughts 
into the English tongue." — Critic. 



Xiocal Self- Government and Centralization : 

The Characteristics of each, and its Practical Tendencies as affecting 
Social, Moral, and Political Welfare and Progress : including com- 
prehensive Outlines of the English Constitution. By J. TOULMIN 
SMITH. Post 8vo, cloth. Original price, 8s. 6d. ; reduced to 5s. 
P. Is. 




" This is a valuable, because a thought- 
ful, treatise upon one of the general sub- 
jects of theoretical and practical politics. 
No one in all probability will give an ab- 
solute assent to all its conclusions, but the 
reader of Mr. Smith's volume will in any 
case be induced to give more weight to 
the important principle insisted on." — 
Taifs Magazine. 

" Embracing, with a vast range of con- 
stitutional learning, used in a singularly 
attractive form, an elaborate review of all 
the leading questions of our day." — Eclec- 
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" This is a book, therefore, of imme- 
diate interest, and one well worthy of the 
most studious consideration of every re- 
former ; but it is also the only complete 
and correct exposition we have of our po- 
litical system; and we mistake much if 
it does not take its place in literature as 
our standard text-book of the consti- 
tution." 

" The special chapters on local self-go- 
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chapters of the soundest practical philo- 
sophy; every page bearing the marks of 
profound and practical thought." 

" The chapters on the crown, and on 
common law, and statute law, display a 
thorough knowledge of constitutional law 
and history, and a vast body of learn- 
ing is brought forward for popular infor- 
mation without the least parade or pe- 
dantry." 

" Mr. Toulmin Smith has made a most 
valuable contribution to English litera- 
ture ; for he has given the people a true 
account of their once glorious constitu- 
tion ; more than that, he has given them 
a book replete with the soundest and most 
practical views of political philosophy." — 
Weekly News. 

" There is much research, sound prin- 
ciple, and good logic in this book ; and we 
can recommend it to the perusal of all 
who wish to attain a competent knowledge 
of the broad and lasting basis of English 
constitutional law and practice."— Morn- 
ing Advertiser. 



Bible Stories. 

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MISCELLANEA. 




The Duty of England : A Protestant Layman's Reply 
to Cardinal Wiseman's "Appeal." 8vo, Is. P. 6d. 

" The * Protestant Layman ' argues the ] logical argument, free inquiry, and free 
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meet the ' Papal aggression' solely by I Chester Spectator. 



The Critical and Miscellaneous Works of 

THEODORE PARKER. Post 8vo, cloth, 6s. P. Is. 



" It will be seen from these extracts 
that Theodore Parker is a writer of con- 
siderable power and freshness, if not origi- 
nality. Of the school of Carlyle, or rather 
taking the same German originals for his 
models, Parker has a more sober style and 
a less theatric taste. His composition 
wants the grotesque animation and rich- 
ness of Carlyle, but it is vivid, strong, and 
frequently picturesque, with a tenderness 
that the great Scotchman does not pos- 
sess." — Spectator. 

" Viewing him as a most useful, as well 
as highly-gifted man, we cordially wel- 
come the appearance of an English reprint 
of some of his best productions. The 
1 Miscellaneous ' pieces are characterized 
by the peculiar eloquence which is without 
a parallel in the works of English writers. 



His language is almost entirely figurative : 
the glories of nature are pressed into his 
service, and convey his most careless 
thought. This is the principal charm of 
his writings ; his eloquence is altogether 
unlike that of the English orator or es- 
sayist ; it partakes of the grandeur of the 
forests in his native land ; and we seem, 
when listening to his speech, to hear the 
music of the woods, the rustling of the 
pine-trees, and the ringing of the wood- 
man's axe. In this respect he resembles 
Emerson; but, unlike that celebrated 
man, he never discourses audibly with 
himself, in a language unknown to the 
world — he is never obscure ; the stream, 
though deep, reveals the glittering gems 
which cluster so thickly on its bed." — 
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Para Bellum, War and Invasion. 8vo, is. 6d. 



Counsels and Consolations. 

18mo. cloth, 2s. 



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Commercial and Banking Tables; embracing 

Time — Simple Interest — Unexpired Time and Interest — Interest. 
Account Current, Time, and Averaging — Compound Interest — ■ 
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and Annuity Tables, equally adapted to the Currencies of all Com- 
mercial Nations. The True or Intrinsic Value of the Gold and 
Silver Coins, and the Standard Weights and Measures of all Com- 
mercial Countries. Also American, English, French, and German 
Exchange. Together with the Exchange of Brazil, and the Impor- 
tation of Rio Coffee. Arranged with reference to the harmonizing 
of the Accounts and Exchanges of the World, the whole upon an 
Original Plan. By R. MONTGOMERY BARTLETT, Principal of 
Bartlett's Commercial College, Cin., 0. One Volume Royal Quarto, 
handsomely bound in russia, £5. 



This Work is Copyright. 



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Calico Printing as an Art Manufacture. 

A Lecture read before the Society of Arts by Edmund Potter. 8vo, 
sewed, Is. 




The Cotton and Commerce of India 5 Con- 
sidered in Relation to the Interests of Great Britain; with Remarks 
on Railway Communication in the Bombay Presidency. By JOHN 
CHAPMAN, Founder and late Manager of the Great Indian Penin- 
sular Railway Company. 8vo, cloth. Original price, 12s. ; reduced 
to 6s. P. Is. 



" Promises to be one of the most useful 
treatises that have been furnished on this 
important subject It is distin- 
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with an accuracy of detail which will, in a 
great measure, render it a text-book." — 
Times, Jan. 22, 1851. 

" Marked by sound good sense, akin to 
the highest wisdom of the statesman. The 
author has given to the public the most 
complete book we have for some time met 
with on any subject." — Economist. 

" Mr. Chapman's great practical know- 
ledge and experience of the subjects upon 
which he treats have enabled him to col- 
lect an amount of information, founded 
upon facts, such as we believe has never 
before been laid before the public. The 
all-important questions of supply, produc- 
tion, and prices of cotton in India, as well 
as the commercial and financial questions 
connected with it, are most ably treated." 
— Morning Chronicle. 

" "Written by an intelligent, painstaking, 
and well-informed gentleman 



Nothing can be more correct than his 
views, so far as they extend, his survey 
and character of districts, his conclusions 
as to the supply the earth can yield, and 
his assertion that the cost of transit is 
with Indian cotton the first and ruling 
element of price."— Daily News. 

" Mr. Chapman's work is only appre- 
ciated in the fulness of its value and merits 
by those who are interested in one or other 
branch of his subject. Full of data for 
reasoning, replete with facts, to which the 
most implicit credit may be attached, and 
free from any political bias, the volume is 
that rara, if not incognita avis, a truth- 
ful blue book, a volume of statistics not 
cooked up to meet a theory or defend a 
practice." — Britannia. 

"The arrangement is clear, and the 
treatment of the subject in all cases mas- 
terly." — Indian News. 

" This is a comprehensive, practical, 
careful, and temperate investigation," &c. 
— Indian Mail. 



The Temporalities of the Established 

Church, as they are and as they might be ; Collected from authentic 
Public Records. By WILLIAM BEESTON, an Old Churchman. 
8vo, paper cover, Is. P. id. 



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Uniform, Post 8vo, ornamented paper cover. 



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Sketches of European Capitals. By william 

WARE, Author of "Zenobia; or, Letters from Palmyra," "Aure- 
lian," &c. Is. P. 6d. 

n. 

Literature and Life. Lectures by e. p. Whipple, 

Author of " Essays and Reviews." Is. P. Qd. 



Representative 

Is. Qd. P. 6d. 

" Mr. Emerson's book is for us rather 
strange than pleasing. Like Mr. Carlyle, 
he strains after effect by quaint phrase- 
ology—the novelty will gain him admirers 
and readers. At the same time there is 
good sterling stuff in him; — already pos- 
sessing a great name in his own country, 
and being well known to the reading world 
of Europe, his present work, speaking of 
men and things with which we are fami- 
liar, will extend his fame. It is more real 
and material than his former volumes; 
more pointedly written, more terse and 
pithy, contains many new views, and is 
on the whole both a good and a readable 
book." — Economist. 

" There are many sentences that glitter 
and sparkle like crystals in the sunlight ; 



Men. Lectures by R. W. EMERSON. 



] and many thoughts, which seem invoked 
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the heart."— Weekly News. 

" There is more practical sense and 
wisdom to be found in it (this Book) than 
in any of the Books he has given to the 
world, since his first When Emer- 
son keeps within his depth, he scatters 
about him a great deal of true wisdom, 
mingled with much genuine poetry. There 
is also a merit in him which it would be 
ungrateful not to acknowledge; he has 
made others think; he has directed the 
minds of thousands to loftier exercises than 
they had known before; he has stimu- 
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and thus led to inquiry, and inquiry cer- 
tainly will conduct to truth." — Critic. 



IV. 
The Eourth Edition of 

The Soul ; Her Sorrows and Her Aspira- 
tions. An Essay towards the Natural History of the Soul as the 
true Basis of Theology. By FRANCIS WILLIAM NEWMAN, 
formerly Fellow of Balliol College, Oxford. 2s. P. 6d. 

v. 

Christian Theism, By c. c. hennell, Author of "An 

Inquiry into the Origin of Christianity." Is. P. 6d. 
VI. 

Historical Sketches of the Old Painters. 

By the Author of " Three Experiments of Living," &c. 

VII. 

The First Series of Essays, By r. w. emerson. 



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THE 

WESTMINSTER REVIEW. 

Hefo &evit$. 

Price Six Shillings per Number. 

Annual Subscription, when paid to the Publisher in Advance, £1 ; or if 
the work be delivered by post, £1 is. 



Contents of No. IV —October, 1852. 



I. The Oxford Commission. 
II. "Whewell's Moral Philosophy. 

III. Plants and Botanists. 

IV. Our Colonial Empire. 
V. The Philosophy of Style. 

VI. The Poetry of the Anti- Jacobin. 
VII. Goethe as a Man of Science. 
VIII The Profession of Literature. 
IX. The Duke of Wellington. 



of 



X. Contemporary Literature 

England. 
XL Contemporary Literature of 

America. 
XII. Contemporary Literature 

Germany. 
XIII. Contemporary Literature 
France. 



of 



of 



Contents of No. Ill— July, 1852. 



Sir Robert Peel and his Policy. 
Contemporary Literature of 



Literature of 



IX 
X, 

England 
XI. Contemporary 

America. 
XII. Contemporary 

Germany. 
XIII. Contemporary 
France. 



Literature of 



Literature of 




I. Secular Education. 
II. England's Forgotten Worthies. 

III. The Future of Geology. 

IV. Lord Jeffrey and the Edinburgh 

Review. 
V. The Tendencies of England. 
VI. The Lady Novelists. 
VII. The Political Life and Senti- 
ments of Niebuhr. 
VIII. The Restoration of Belief. 

" The Westminster Review, which has failed under so many managements, 
under its new management promises to be no failure at all. Good healthy 
blood stirs in it, and we have little doubt that it will not only win its way to as 
high a point in public estimation as it held in its best days, but that more prac- 
tical results will follow, and it will be found to sell. With equal ability, we 
observe a larger and more catholic spirit. In the present number there are 
several good subjects soundly and admirably treated, and there is a delightful 
article on ' England's Forgotten Worthies,' especially to be named with plea- 
sure. The notion of treating quarterly in four final articles the general con- 
temporary literature of England, America, Germany and France, is very good ; 
the articles are well done, and they place the reader of the review in possession 
of a kind of information which he wants about the literature of the day. Let 
us hope, then, that our old friend the Westminster, brought as it now is into com- 
plete harmony with the spirit of the time, and having its pages furnished by 
thinking men as well as able writers, will take gradually a sure hold of the 
public, and will be bought by tho?e who heretofore have been satisfied to read it 
as it came to them borrowed from the circulating library. We wish its new 
conductors all success. They are in the right way to obtain it." — Examiner, 
July 24th. 



'3^^ 



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THE WESTMINSTEE REVIEW. 



" The new Westminster Review is a brilliant and thoughtful one." — Leader, 
July 10th. 

" In general, the Review is characterized by great novelty and great vigour." 
— Economist, July 10th. 

" This number, like its predecessors, is characterized by enlarged thought, 
loftiness of purpose, and a style of great freshness, brilliance, and vigour." — 
Sheffield Free Press. 

" The reader who looks to the successive issues of the Westminster for a well- 
stored field of matter whence he may derive intellectual improvement and grati- 
fication, will find his expectations fully answered in the current number, which 
is quite equal to its predecessors of the new series." — British Mercury. 

" This organ of free inquiry and liberal politics proceeds vigorously in the 
hands of Mr. Chapman. The entire contents of the number are rich and 
varied." — Bradford Observer. 

" This new number is as attractive for the variety of its articles, and the force 
and brilliancy which generally characterize them, as for the value of the solid 
thoughts and pregnant suggestions which they contain. Fine writing too often 
of itself sustains the reputation of our quarterlies ; fine and deep thinking is less 
cared for; but in the union of these two seldom united qualities the Westminster 
may be fairly said to be at present pre-eminent." — Coventry Herald. 

" We have no hesitation in saying that the Westminster Review, in point of 
talent, is not surpassed by any of its numerous contemporaries." — Cambridge 
Independent. 

" The present number well maintains that high and independent position 
which the first did and promised to continue." — Plymouth Journal. 

"The contributions are of a very high order." — Western Times. 

" The present number contains no fewer than thirteen articles, all written 
with consummate ability, and all treating of popular and interesting subjects." 
— Nottingham Mercury. 



I 



Contents of No. II —April, 1852. 



I. The Government of India. 
II. Physical Puritanism. 

III. Europe : its Condition and Pro- 

spects. 

IV. A Theory of Population, de- 

duced from the General Law 
of Animal Fertility. 
V. Shelley and the Letters of Poets. 
VI. The Commerce of Literature. 
VII. Lord Palmerston and his Policy. 



VIII. Early Quakers and Quakerism. 
IX. Contemporary Literature of 

England. 
X. Contemporary Literature of 
America. 
XL Contemporary Literature of 

Germany. 
XII. Contemporary Literature of 
France. 



" "We had occasion to speak of the promise of the Westminster under its new 
management, and the second number entirely confirms our favourable judgment. 
It would be difficult to find anywhere, now-a-days, so much originality, ability, 
and sincerity, in the same number of pages." — Daily News. 

" The Westminster Review, under its new editorship, seems destined to achieve 
a very distinguished position as a critical Titan, and to become a powerful agent 
in the mental and moral progress of the age." — Weekly Dispatch. 

" The current number of this periodical is one of unusual merit. ***** 
Must be ranked among the very best that have been given to the world since 
the first publication of the Westminster and Foreign Quarterly." — Observer. 

" The present is altogether an excellent number of the Westminster." — Leeds 
Times. 




I 



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b2 



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MR. CHAPMAN S PUBLICATIONS. 



" Without enumerating the articles, we are safe in giving them cred", for 
solidity and ability." — The Scotsman, 

" The number presents a more than usually rich and varied programme." — 
Glasgow Citizen. 

" The present number of this able organ of progress is, upon the whole, 
superior to the last." — Glasgow Sentinel. 

" The Westminster holds on bravely in the career started under its new edi- 
torial regime, grappling in an intrepid and uncompromising spirit of inquiry 
with what may be called the organic, social, political, literary, and philosophical 
questions of the age." — Liverpool Mercury. 

" The articles exhibit a well-selected variety of topics, and their treatment is 
characterized by largeness of view, independence of thought, and marked 
ability." — Bristol Mercury. 

" The manifest improvement and infusion of new life and spirit into this 
Quarterly, which marked the first number of the new series, are well kept up." 
— Stamford Mercury. 

" These wide fields for discussion are treated in a masterly manner by the 
writers now engaged upon this important serial." — Reading Mercury. 

" Our previous opinion of the Westminster Review, under the new management, 
is fully borne out by the present number, which contains evidence of unques- 
tionable originality, great ability, and unaffected heartiness in the cause of pro- 
gress." — Sheffield Free Press. 

" It is almost impossible to select a paper, and say that it bears the palm. 
* * * One is unable to say which most recommends itself to his notice by its 
philosophy, its clearness, the knowledge which it communicates, or the language 
with which it is adorned." — Sherborne Journal. 

" The second number of the Westminster, under its new management, evidences 
all the freshness and force which characterized the first number, with a full 
measure of that comprehensiveness which especially characterizes the most 
original and far-seeing and philosophic of the Quarterlies." — Coventry Herald. 



Contents of No. I. 

I. Representative Reform. 
II. Shell Fish: their Ways and 
Works. 

III. The Relation between Em- 

ployers and Employed. 

IV. Mary Stuart. 

V. The Latest Continental Theory 

of Legislation. 
YI. Julia von Kriidener as Co- 
quette and Mystic. 
VII. The Ethics of Christendom. 



—January, 1852. 

VIII. Political Questions and Pities 
in France. 
IX. Contemporary Literature of 
England. 
X. Retrospective Survey of Ame- 
rican Literature. 
XL Contemporary Literature of 
America. 
XII. Contemporary Literature of 

Germany. 
XIII. Contemporary Literature of 
France. 

" This number is perfectly satisfactory." — Daily News. 

" Exhibits a very effective coalition of independent minds." — Globe. 

" When we compare the two Reviews, (Quarterly and Westminster,) and point 
out the greater merits of the Westminster, we try it by a very high standard, and 
pass on it a very high eulogium. The new life it has received is all vigorous and 
healthy." — Economist. 

" Contains some of the best and most interesting articles which have ever 
graced a ' Quarterly.'" — Weekly Dispatch. 

" Its principles remain the same as of yore, though enforced with far more 
vigour." — Observer. 

" Distinguished by high literary ability, and a tone of fearless and truthful 
discussion which is full of promise for the future." — Weekly News. 



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THE WESTMINSTER REVIEW. 



" The variety and ability of the articles are great, and the general tone of 
the Review is unequivocally the expression of matured thought, and earnest and 
elevated convictions." — Inquirer. 

" We congratulate Mr. Chapman on the high tone ana spirit of superior 
enterprise manifest in the Review." — Court Journal. 

The "Westminster Review" is designed as an instrument for the 
development and guidance of earnest thought on Politics, Social Philo- 
sophy, Religion, and General Literature ; and is the organ of the most 
able and independent minds of the day. 

The fundamental principle of the work is the recognition of the Law 
of Progress. In conformity with this principle, and with the consequent 
conviction that attempts at reform — though modified by the experience 
of the past and the conditions of the present — should be directed and 
animated by an advancing ideal, the Editors seek to maintain a steady 
comparison of the actual with the possible, as the most powerful stimulus 
to improvement. Nevertheless, in the deliberate advocacy of organic 
changes, it will not be forgotten, that the institutions of man, no less 
than the products of nature, are strong and durable in proportion as 
they are the results of a gradual development, and that the most salutary 
and permanent reforms are those, which, while embodying the wisdom 
of the time, yet sustain such a relation to the moral and intellectual con- 
dition of the people as to ensure their support. 

In contradistinction to the practical infidelity and essentially destruc- 
tive policy which would ignore the existence of wide-spread doubts in 
relation to established creeds and systems, and would stifle all inquiry 
dangerous to prescriptive claims, the Review exhibits that untemporizing 
expression of opinion, and that fearlessness of investigation and criticism, 
which are the results of a consistent faith in the ultimate prevalence 
of truth. 

Aware that the same fundamental truths are apprehended under a 
variety of forms, and that, therefore, opposing systems may in the end 
prove complements of each other, the Editors endeavour to institute such 
a radical and comprehensive treatment of those controverted questions 
which are practically momentous, as may aid in the conciliation of diver- 
gent views. In furtherance of this object, a limited portion of the work, 
under the head of "Independent Contributions," is set apart for the 
reception of articles ably setting forth opinions which, though not dis- 
crepant with the general spirit of the Review, may be at variance with 
the particular ideas or measures it will advocate. The primary object of 
this department is to facilitate the expression of opinion by men of high 
mental power and culture, who, while they are zealous friends of free- 
dom and progress, yet differ widely on special points of great practical 
concern, both from the Editors and from each other. 




1 



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THE WESTMINSTER REVIEW. 



The Review gives especial attention to that wide range of topics which 
may be included under the term Social Philosophy. It endeavours to 
form a dispassionate estimate of the diverse theories on these subjects, 
to give a definite and intelligible form to the chaotic mass of thought 
now prevalent concerning them, and to ascertain both in what degree 
the popular efforts after a more perfect social state are countenanced by 
the teachings of politico-economical science, and how far they may be 
sustained and promoted by the actual character and culture of the 
people. 

In the department of politics careful consideration is given to all the 
most vital questions, without regard to the distinctions cf party ; the 
only standard of consistency to which the Editors adhere being the real, 
and not the accidental, relations of measures — their bearing, not on a 
ministry or a class, but on the public good. 

In the treatment of Religious Questions the Review unites a spirit of 
reverential sympathy for the cherished associations of pure and elevated 
minds with an uncompromising pursuit of truth. The elements of eccle- 
siastical authority and of dogma are fearlessly examined, and the results 
of the most advanced Biblical criticism are discussed without reservation, 
under the conviction that religion has its foundation in man's nature, and 
will only discard an old form to assume and vitalize one more expressive 
of its essence. While, however, the Editors do not shrink from the 
expression of what they believe to be sound negative views, they equally 
bear in mind the pre-eminent importance of a constructive religious 
philosophy, as connected with the development and activity of the moral 
nature, and of those poetic and emotional elements, out of which pro- 
ceed our noblest aspirations and the essential beauty of life. 

In the department of General Literature the criticism is animated by 
the desire to elevate the standard of the public taste, in relation both to 
artistic perfection and moral purity ; larger space is afforded for articles 
intrinsically valuable, by the omission of those minor and miscellaneous 
notices which are necessarily forestalled by newspapers and magazines, 
and equivalent information is given in a single article showing the course 
of literary production during each preceding quarter. The Foreign Sec- 
tion of the Review is also condensed into an Historical Survey of the 
novelties in Continental and American Literature which have appeared 
in the same interval. 



■S88 — 



^9- -e^ 





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MR. chapman's publications. 



THE 

PROSPECTIVE REVIEW 

% flBuatrterlg journal 
OP THEOLOGY AND LITERATURE. 

Price 2s. 6d. per Number. 



Contents of No. XXXI —August, 1852. 



I. Eegal Kome. 
II. The Gift of Tongues. 
III. Memoirs of Chalmers. 



IV. Heresies about Inspiration. 
V. Oxford. 
VI. The Eclipse of Faith. 



The " Pkospective Review" is devoted to a free theology, and the 
moral aspects of literature. Under the conviction that lingering in- 
fluences from the doctrine of verbal inspiration are not only depriving 
the primitive records of the Gospel of their true interpretation, but even 
destroying faith in Christianity itself, the work is conducted in the con- 
fidence that only a living mind and heart, not in bondage to any letter, 
can receive the living spirit of revelation ; and in the fervent belief that 
for all such there is a true Gospel of God, which no critical or historical 
speculation can discredit or destroy, it aims to interpret and represent 
Spiritual Christianity in its character of the universal religion. Fully 
adopting the sentiment of Coleridge, that " the exercise of the reasoning 
and reflective powers, increasing insight, and enlarging views, are 
requisite to keep alive the substantial faith of the heart," — with a grate- 
ful appreciation of the labours of faithful predecessors of all churches, — 
it esteems it the part of a true reverence not to rest in their conclusions, 
but to think and live in their spirit. By the name, " Pkospective 
Review," it is intended to lay no claim to discovery, but simply to 
express the desire and the attitude of Progress; to suggest continually 
the duty of using past and present as a trust for the future ; and openly 
to disown the idolatrous conservatism, of whatever sect, which makes 
Christianity but a lifeless formula. 



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Sermons of Consolation. By P. 

W. P. Greenwood, D.D. 3s. cloth. 
2. 

Self- Culture. By Wm. Ellbet 

Channing. Paper Covers, 6d.; Is. 
cloth. 



(Out of Print.) 
4. 

The Critical and Miscellaneous 

Writings of Theodore Parker. CI. 6s. 



(Out of Print.) 
6. 
Essays. By R. W. Emeeson. 
(Second Series.) With a Notice by 
Thomas Carlyle. 3s. 

7. 

Memoir of J. Gottlieb Fichte. 

By William Smith. Second Edi- 
tion, enlarged. Cloth, 4s. 

8. 

The Vocation of the Scholar. 

By Johann Gottlieb Fichte. 

Cloth, 2s.; paper cover, Is. 6d. 



On the Nature of the Scholar, 

and its Manifestations. By Johann 
Gottlieb Fichte. Second Edition. 
Cloth, 3s. 

10. 

The Vocation of Man. By Jo. 

hann Gottlieb Fichte. Cloth, 4s. 
11. 

The Characteristics of the Pre- 
sent Age. By Johann Gottlieb 
Fichte. Cloth, Gs. 



12. 

The Way towards the Blessed 

Life; or, The Doctrine of Religion. 
By Johann Gottlieb Fichte. 
Translated by William Smith. 
Cloth, 5s. 

13. 

Popular Christianity: its Tran- 
sition State and probable Develop- 
ment. By Frederick Foxton, A.B. 
Cloth, 5s. 

14. 

Life of Jean Paul Fr. Richter. 

Compiled from various sources. To- 
gether with his Autobiography, trans- 
lated from the German. Second 
Edition. Illustrated with a Portrait, 
engraved on Steel. Cloth, 7s. 6d. 

15. 

Wm. von Humboldt's Letters 

to a Female Friend. A Complete 
Edition. 2 vols, cloth, 10s. 

16. 

Representative Men. Seven 

Lectures. By Ralph Waldo Emer- 
son. Cloth, Is. 6d. 

17. 

Religious Mystery Considered. 

Cloth, 2s. 

18. 

God in Christ. Discourses by 
Horace Bushnell. In 1 vol. cloth, 

6s. 

19. 

St. Paul's Epistles to the Corin- 
thians : An Attempt to convey their 
Spirit and Significance. By the 
Rev. John Hamilton Thom. 1 vol. 

cloth, 7s. 

20. 

A Discourse of Matters per- 
taining to Religion. By Theodore 
Parker. Post 8vo, cloth, 4s. 



W8& 



■*>&. 



THE CATHOLIC SEEIES. 



" The various works composing the ' Catholic Series' should be known to all lovers 
of literature."— Morning Chronicle. 

" Without reference to the opinions which they contain, we may safely say that 
they are generally such as all men of free and philosophical minds would do well to 
know and ponder." — Nonconformist. 

" A series of serious and manly publications." — Economist. 

" This series deserves attention, both for what it has already given, and for what 
it promises." — Tait's Magazine. 

" A series not intended to represent or maintain a form of opinion, but to bring 
together some of the works which do honour to our common nature, by the genius 
they display, or by their ennobling tendency and lofty aspirations." — Inquirer. 

" It is highly creditable to Mr. Chapman to find his name in connexion with so 
much well-directed enterprise in the cause of German literature and philosophy. He 
is the first publisher who seems to have proposed to himself the worthy object of in- 
troducing the English reader to the philosophic mind of Germany, uninfluenced by 
the tradesman's distrust of the marketable nature of the article. It is a very praise- 
worthy ambition; and we trust the public will justify his confidence. Nothing could 
be more unworthy than the attempt to discourage, and indeed punish, such unselfish 
enterprise, by attaching a bad reputation for orthodoxy to everything connected with 
German philosophy and theology. This is especially unworthy in the ' student,' or 
the * scholar,' to borrow Fichte's names, who should disdain to set themselves the 
task of exciting, by their friction, a popular prejudice and clamour on matters on 
which the populace are no competent judges, and have, indeed, no judgment of their 
own, — and who should feel, as men themselves devoted to thought, that what makes 
a good book is not that it should gain its reader's acquiescence, but that it should 
multiply his mental experience ; that it should acquaint him with the ideas which 
philosophers and scholars, reared by a training different from their own, have labo- 
riously reached and devoutly entertain ; that, in a word, it should enlarge his 
materials and his sympathies as a man and a thinker."— Prospective Review. 



*» <t <i <t<D<l)<D(l>(|>(t>(l> n> «» ■ * 



g£3^ 





FREE TRADE IN BOOKS. 



MR. JOHN CHAPMAN, who originated the agitation for free trade 
in books, which has recently been brought to a successful termination, 
invites public attention to the liberal terms on which he is now enabled, 
by the dissolution of the Booksellers' Association, to supply books of all 
kinds. 

MISCELLANEOUS ENGLISH BOOKS. 

Mr. Chapman will allow, for Cash, a discount of one-sixth, 
Or twopence in the Shilling*, from the advertised prices of 
all new books which are published on the usual terms. Works issued 
by those publishers who, in consequence of the recent change, deter- 
mine to reduce the amount of discount allowed to the trade, will be 
supplied at relatively advantageous rates. 

Periodicals and Magazines supplied on the day of publication, at a 
discount of 10 per cent, from the published prices. 

Orders for Old or Second-hand Books carefully attended to, and 
Binding executed in all varieties of style. 

AMERICAN BOOKS AT GREATLY REDUCED PRICES. 

The retail prices of American Books have hitherto been much higher 
than needful in England, in consequence of the practice of allowing a 
large discount to the trade ; Mr. Chapman begs to announce that he will 
in future supply the English public with American Hooks, at 
the COSt price Of importation, with the addition only of 
a small remunerative commission. 

The prices attached (in English currency) to the List of American 
Books published by Mr. Chapman, with the exception of Periodicals 
and Magazines, are the Lowest Nett Prices, from which, 
therefore, no discount can be allowed. 

Mr. C. INVITES ATTENTION to his EXTENSIVE AND CAEEFULLT- SELECTED 

stock op Ameeican Books, a classified Catalogue of which, at the 
greatly-reduced prices, may now be had, gratis, on application, or by 
post in return for two stamps. 

i^T Purchasers are especially requested to transmit their orders for 
American Boohs, accompanied by a remittance, or reference in Town, 
directly to Mr. Chapman, who will promptly execute them, and forward 
the Boohs, by Post or otlierwise, as desired. 

LONDON: JOHN CHAPMAN, 142, STRAND. 





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POEMS. 



B. R PaRKES. 



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L N 1) N : 

J II N • C H APIA N, 142, S T K A N D, 

MDCGCLII. 




Price Two Skill 



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nigs. 



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